I have no words of my own. As Apollo Korzeniowska said, “C’est une histoire sur des destinees depaysees, sur des individus expulses et perdus.”
I have a nightmare. I am awakened, shouting “Moon, Moon, Moon” and leap, naked among my friends whom I have disturbed in the darkness. Then I awaken again.
I have been collecting paua, pipi and the chill has migrated up my thighs and through my body. The loss of movement in my legs is painfully crippling. The full Moon brings low tides and draws chill winds from the southern islands.
I lived in St Heliers for such a short time. My father’s fathers would have been ashamed of me, a wanderer, not a conqueror. They would have called me a lunatic, a drifter.
Sometimes I wake in the night shouting “La Lune, la Lune, la Lune”.
As I look to the skies I see a plough share, a northern cross, a group of stars perhaps heavenly sisters, a great hunter now a cooking pot, a southern cross. I see a Waning Crescent in the morning and a Waxing Crescent at night.
I wake up shouting “Hotu, Atua, Turu”, tearing at my sleepshirt shaped like a Jersey tower. I have been collecting ormers at spring tide, while the Moon lines up with the Sun to tug all apart and the sea is bitterly cold.
My ancestors saw the Sun, watched a dark Venus drift across its disc, measured it. They saw the Moon eat into it and finally block out the bright light. The birds fell silent and the bats woke from their sleep.
My ancestors left the havre beside St Helier, sailing in search of cod.
My ancestors were raiders in their longboats, sequesters of lands.
My ancestors were always children of te Marama.