It had a dark tower of ornate wood , beams and car crates, walls combined from detritus. Making do , no… making more than do, making beauty from that which was cast away. The wharenui smelt of charred wood , rich and reminiscent of ancestors , not mine but also mine. The charred smell was like the rope locker, like the Devon boat yards my people left behind. White boy at the kōhanga , of my time.
The pigs awaited the hangi , they smelt like compost and cabbage, 40 years have passed and it’s as vivid as breakfast. Lumbering , docile and rural , 20 minutes from Parliament, 200 yards from the Sisters, Catholic land, once it was Māori, then it was Māori again. White boy at the kōhanga, of my time.   
In the end the flames came, dust to dust , ashes to ashes , not the end though , history keeps on writing till there is no hand to hold the pen and no paper to bear the scar.