“My God”

God is a different colour here:

green and grey,

less dramatic,

made up of different names

which are more lyrical

like Rangitoto and Matutapu

and Piha, as if in celebration,

exclamation of another happiness.


The expressions are foreign

and the colours different,

but a rainbow looks the same

driving along a volcanic plateau

so that the seven stripes

run with the rain,

making a ridgetop catch alight

in green and yellowred flame.


God is a different colour here,

but that a god exists

is unquestionable –

the burning mountain proves it.

Such deities do not interfere

or guide our chaotic lives.

God waits to be found

in foreign sounds and new sights.


There is no book which describes

my multi-coloured god.

No combination of words which

convince me of my cohabitation

with the divine.

There is just my pencil,

a rainbow-melted hill on fire

and miles to go before I sleep.

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