I am living out some kind of tale
by holding a photograph of a sunrise
where the camera has been aimed
at black swans gliding through mists,
with Makoia Island in the distance
silhouetted by a sun
which has not fully risen,
is taking its time with pinkness

at dawn, this day

there is movement
in my hand —
steam rises from sulfur springs
and there is fog from my own breathing.
I cannot see the change, the shape
of my neck arcing its way down
into the image, as I find a way back
to bubbling water

fingers feathered at my sides.

[first appeared in Poetry New Zealand: Vol. XIV: 1997]

Therése Halscheid