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.