It’s a question of being somewhere to be
knowing when to stay
still, sitting on storeys telling stories
making gardens, waiting to eat.
It’s when you see feijoas rolling
in-between hedges, a deck built by hands
roots that upset the pavement
or burnished Kauri finished with scratches.
When a place is clothed in light (quiet arches,
slouching windows, a sharp entry),
it’s all stitched by the same needle
so you grasp for the stories in hallways.
Sometimes you’re successful, and catch whispers
and know naivety is like understanding
where you now stand is
as permanent as sinking sand.
It’s about history made with bricks,
season after layers of reasons to be built
realising how forever it all is.