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This was the day without
a parable, without a moral
where men of Maori families
dived for paua and for sea eggs.
A would-be poet walked the beach
hunting for shells small enough
to amaze his wife who had made
three sons and several poems
which have since outgrown her.
From a pohutukawa grove
came another poet with two
children and one wife. A poet
showed another poet a shell,
a lace cockle. They all marvelled
a thing so hard thus single,
purely white. The shell was being.
It was not becoming. Was.
                                                                    6. 11. 67
Editor's note
About Verbs: first published in Earthquake Weather; the poets are KS and his wife Mary, and C.K. Stead and his wife Kay
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