Te Matua Ngahere

eight hundred years ago
			he towered fully
	three four times beyond
		today’s conservative hunkering
			and no rise betrays 
		which way his topspine toppled. 
for centuries that kingdom 
	of beautiful decay 
		became a catacomb swale
	an off-contour hollow burrough— 
		majesty rematerialized
			by brother roots 
				for the furthering— 
		its ceremonial braid 
			woven into legendary bird nests.
				now epiphytes nuzzle 
			the soft cradle of old fracture 
	offering unheeded advice— 
		warming the whispered ear
			while infant trees 
	sprout through combed-over hair.