The very name conjures up a fantasy
As it rolls off your tongue and pours into
The hot, dark seedbed of your imagination.
A long, cramped plane ride; patience frays
But you know there are giant stone heads ahead
Heads hewn by humans, saying THIS IS ME.
The volcanoes rose out of an ancient sea.
Forcing their way through the ocean’s crust
Magma thrusting up towards the sun, red and black.
Huge lakes crept into the craters
The island waited. Silently. Patiently.
For someone to find it.
Remember the time, those many centuries ago
When we first came here? Who knows what drew us,
The currents, the birds, the lure of an azure sea.
We pitched up in paradise. And what could we do but stay?
Claim this place as our own. Dig fingers in the sand.
Our feet the first to touch this ground.
The plane descends into the humid night air
Of an island, captured in the vast Pacific
Remote as the possibility of finding such a place.
A lady passes a garland of flowers over your head
The flowers are pink, shining, fragile jewels in a dark night.
When dawn comes you stare out at the Moai. Transfixed.
Exploring the shoreline, with your brother
Rocks scour the soles of your feet
As you pick shells out of the rock pools.
A dead horse’s jaw, that your brother dares you to touch
You watch out for anemones
And gaze into the clearest water you have ever seen.
You climb up into a quarry, where a thousand years ago
People chipped, and carved, and worked
Heads hewn out of the volcano, with ancient tools.
Lines of Moai stand stark against the sky. Looking over the land.
We were here, they say. We did this. We had power.
(You shuffle, and you stand up straight, and you try to be the same as them.)
That night, you tell us that you are going to be a sculptor.
You scavenged for obsidian on the volcano that morning.
You want wood, or rock, or shell. Something you can carve.
Looking around for materials, you grasp a bread roll.
Biting it, you make your mark.
This is my Broai, you announce.
Rapa Nui – Māuru-uru.