Spirits Of The Dead

It was up where the mountain daisy
grew in air as cool as silk, amidst
moss-chameleonic flint-like rock
which stood dressed in mute autumn
shades aloof of a stunted tussock
backdrop. A few trees, grey mountain
ash clung to hollows where the icy
wind could not claw out their eyes.

We were short of the snow line,
a hundred feet away – where the
raucous shale gathered, and in the
moaning dusk we heard the cries.
Each night as we lay they leaked
through the nylon walls. Spirits of
the dead my companion says, lost
souls calling for deliverance.

Bullshit, I say, a mountain parrot,
my guess is a Kaka calling his mate
but I’ve never heard it reply.
Ever seen one he asks?
As I shake my head he smiles
enigmatically – spirits of the dead,
the last Kaka seen round here died
back more than a hundred years...
© 17 April 2007, I.D. Carswell