I'd happily write only a mystical paean to Hone Tuwhare, master poet of rain/
but then again my rain today is not the same as his, leached through a thousand mountains/
milled down a million rivers, raised up in vapour from two billion hectares of ocean/
carried in cumulus, swirled and ice-crystalled, flashed and thundered/
cloud-descended over these green hills and emptied over me/
the drop at the end of my nose perhaps once drunk by the maestro himself in 1963.