Tongue and Groove, and: Photo on Page Two

Tongue and Groove

It rained continuous New Zealand rain. The earth was full.We squashed across the field to the wooden house.Usual clapper board or was it tongue and groove? A veranda,a few people paddling in the mud struggled with a canvas fullof water to make a cover for the Barbie. Hopeless, I thought,why bother. They were horse people.

Inside Christmas glitter limped across the ceiling, dipped,looped, touched our heads. A long table laid with food.We'd brought our plate. I knew no one. Nothing to relate,felt tired, wanted to sit and wished I stayed at home.What was I doing here? Doing my bit?

Then, the children came.

Two in wheelchairs. A Down's syndrome boy.None of them the same. A fairy-child had one shortened arm,a tiny stub of hand, thalidomide. These young were taught to ride.Here, lifed from our earth, are offered a second birth.

We stood aside as prizes were announced,that each child took with a sort of indifferent pride.Clapping and pleasure. No one was left out. But outsideon the wet boards, a child stayed. His face touching, his eyes askew,watching the rain and wind rocking a full-grown dock.*

Closer than painter contemplating seed he examined—loved the leaves. Stroked them. Smelled, almost atetheir air to satisfy and ingest this need.

"Santa's coming!" his urgent parents called.He appeared appropriate in red, white nylon beard.Presents and thanks to all who helped, etc. They tided up the year.

But the child outside with the weed had found his gift.Would not be pulled away. Hummed, moaned, swayed, didn'tneed our language. Out of our tinseled world.Out of the intrusion of speech.

He stays beyond our reach.

Photo on Page Two

They are casually beatinga man to death

the passersby glance in his directionthe beaters achieve their objectthe beaten is passed objectingto the passersby he is an objectthey are objecting to a rage within

it may be relivedbut it is not dead

they go on beatingthey go on beating

they will go on beating.