Misty

It could be Danish
or white as Sweden,
fjord days in mist a washed.

Such  take me back to green and lush
to when it rained horrendous to dampen earth,
of six days kilned in thunderous fire.

I smelled New Zealand from afar
ever before I heard of Christ Church,
long before before I saw South Island  break horizon's seal

There's something misty and majestic,
about Maori men of war jutting out their tongues
Their tattoo ink sticks to your marrow and tomorrows.

They pirate your heart and head up-country
to where coffee color brides await
of lion manes honey comb.

On the soft cushions of their bodies
A taste, mate, of what else?
A dish of yummy.