Frosty morning

From the east of the Ihumatao stream he catches sight of the Moon. He is aghast. Its colour is beyond white or candle-flame and beeswax-glow, it is a fierce and fiery molten gold, and enormous – filling the eye, filling half the sky it seems: Sister Moon radiant in splendour. She descends towards the horizon. He stands transfixed in awe.

If he runs fast enough to the little gravel beach he will see her sink into the sea between the heads of the harbour mouth – a baptismal ritual in symmetry, a Botticelli painting in reverse.

Across the river, down the trail, the frosty heads of the sedge plants clattering in the air of his passage in the gloom. Across rocky pasture, through a forest of tall fennel – a path imperceptible in the dark.

Faster.

It suddenly is the day his mother died.

To: lwmariposa@hotmail.com: Phone call from Hazel. Mum has had a heart attack and has perhaps half an hour, perhaps till tomorrow, to live. Got a flight down in two hours. See you.

Flying a thousand kilometres – convinced: she will wait.

Past the gnarled pines, through the grove of cabbage trees, the swamp where once he saw the elusive matuku standing amongst the reeds. Flying, ragged lungs gulping down the icy air.

If only he can run fast enough.

Past the sleeping bulk of cows, dark against the misty ground, their noses tucked neatly beneath their tails like puppies in a warm basket.

And then, increasingly now, the fear – the text that arrived during the stopover half way. She had died before he even left the airport.

The gravel of the beach crunches beneath his feet. The horizon – dark and empty, the great Moon gone as if she had never been. Silence. Emptiness. The cold water smooth in the dark.

Barnaby McBryde