Pua'A Ali'I Poem by John Bliven Morin

Above the vale of Paumalu
An ancient road-bed lies;
On horseback, hunters once passed through
Wauke tall as skies.

Gone are the hunters from the path,
Now overgrown so thickly there,
That one can only find his way
Through all the underbrush with care.

Down from the higher hills at dusk,
(I sit unmoving, still as stone)
The Pig-Clan come to claim this vale
As part of their nocturnal home.

Circling, the proud, protecting boar,
Pua’a Ali’i, scents a Man,
Yet knows somehow that I’m a friend,
And no threat to his clan.

He calls, and cautiously they come
To see this curiosity;
Warily and fearful, first,
Then close, as if inspecting me.

Satisfied, they move at last
To a muddy spring among the trees,
Made many generations past
By the ancestors of these.

And then an ancient ritual starts,
Their speech proclaims delight,
As sensuous squeel and throaty grunt
Sound boldly in the night.

And when this porcine rite concludes,
Pua’a Ali’i calls them all;
Obediantly they come to him,
His people large and small.

And winding down the dark’ning vale,
They pass from out of sight.
Smiling, I pick up my pack
And slip into the night.

Copyright (C) 1978,2005, John Bliven Morin