Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Three
November- December 2025
Near Karekare Falls, poems by Kit Willett.
Near Karekare Falls
To get out of the valley,
the toutouwai must swoop.
His silver wings arc down the bushline,
and, with room to spare, he pulls up
and lets the works of sweet physics
sail him into the sky.
Much of a bird’s life is physics,
as is, I suppose, mine,
as I sit and watch
with my iris regulating
the dilution of my pupil,
and my tea, the perfect strength,
growing slowly colder in the cup,
and my breathing, steady and deep.
The bird exits the top of the hill,
and I hear the small chirps of success.
As I watch bird after bird
perform this sacred rite,
I wonder if it is the same one,
passing time,
and I wonder what joy is felt
in the rush of air on the face,
or the weightlessness of the zenith,
or the path from end to starting line.
He delights in being fully himself,
how he was made to move,
who he was made to be.
I think on this awhile,
as I breathe in deep
and drink my tea.
The rug is a gift
The rug is a gift; its fraying edges
cling to the floor—strands to be caught
by the maw of a vacuum or the claw of the cat.
It greets my feet with grace, saving them
from the concrete and its thin membrane
of linoleum. The rug has followed us
to five houses in as many years;
it deserves a trim and a shave.
It gets a little ratty. It is a gift:
its pattern attracts the eyes
during the quiet conversations
of the night, and its colour, faded,
goes with our couch. The rug is a gift.
And, best of all, we got it on sale.
A perfect day
There is no recipe for a perfect day,
but I would be content with one like this,
where the crisp air and crunchy leaves
are punctuated by the exaltation of korimako,
and the fog sits low and lazy in the sky.
There are passers-by; I can tell
from the lingering smell of coffee
and a memory of their conversation
when I again open my eyes,
and on and on rolls the river.
That is when I notice the ducks, first,
a coy mallard, perhaps, its pāua plumage
hid away, and my breath, second.
There is no recipe for a perfect day,
but one with ducks is probably pretty good.
I would be content with you beside me,
our breaths syncopated like a heartbeat
as we feel in our lungs this fine autumn day.
It is only when you at last sigh the word
that the world follows suit, and the day
becomes
perfect.
© Kit Willett
Kit Willett (he/they) is a bisexual poet, English teacher, and executive editor of the Aotearoa poetry journal Tarot. His debut poetry collection, Dying of the Light, was published by Wipf and Stock imprint Resource Publications in 2022.