From the shore that was still theirs
they saw it one morning,
called it a floating island,
a colossal bird.
The men took their oars
and sped out in their waka
right up under its massive wings
that stroked the sun.
And when one man dropped cold at the prow
they knew it was an Atua,
one of the gods that rove
like the whales, the white sea birds.
And the men ventured to challenge it,
got up close under its yawning, fiery mouths
that screamed over their heads,
as it exhaled, grew larger
as if to feast, devoured the waves,
churned up whirlpools,
while its spine thrust above
their dizzying sight.
But the men where satisfied,
they’d shown how
they were a match for the deity.
News spread as Atua slid up the coast.
And when it came to rest in a bay,
just like an island,
others were waiting along the beach.
from the wounded side of the god,
ferried like a message
across centuries and the winds of Hawaiiki.
And there before them on the shore,
the radiant, benevolent messenger,
from the throat of that dark bird, advanced,
while the people, hushed, spoke rapidly,
and the emissary’s guards
chanted rabid, whistled songs,
clutching at their sides,
the warriors couldn’t fail to notice,
But the quiet one moved among the onlookers,
touched them, smiled,
took their offerings,
patted the children’s fine, dark hair
with one soft palm,
handed them hard iron nails
with the other,
all the while smiling, glowing, blinding,
for he was not yet human.
Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014