I stand on cold dewy grass, the last light of day escapes away.

The stars of Matariki become clear, unimaginably high above me

In a context in which height has no meaning . I look back to earth.

The apple trees stand bare , skeleton hands reach out to the stars

They point and beckon in the breeze.

This ancient rite is the way of my people, if forgotten.

Somewhere lost between Sunday Best and pay day beers.

My trees stand on stolen land , extracted one way or the other.

This is an orchard of broken promises.

That they were not mine does not absolve me.

That I acknowledge the theft makes no reparation.

My trees keep growing on the land , roots deep in the whenua.

I raise my bowl of steaming cider , it is rich with spice and heft with brandy

I bang my pots , I shout  “drinkhail!”   ,  I shout  “wassail!”  

The demons are driven from the branches.

The apples will fruit next year . And I will still be , gods willing and if the rivers don’t rise

I will still be here , still on this whenua , scrating apples, fermenting their blood ,

 returning their flesh to the earth, still here , stood on stolen land.