Still Is

The thrushes are back. The blackbirds too are back, already worrying the thrushes, filching their choice worms. The gorse is running the hills along the Aramoana Road, spills the slopes yellow; the broom, so much more politely, you call it gold. Look again, the gorse walks prickling against the skyline. This is September. Still Is gathers ninety dazzling new poems by Vincent O’Sullivan. These are poems that call and respond, poems that elaborate and pare down, and poems in which an ending is a beginning.