Pohutukawa trees by the shore,
Their blossoms glowing like beacons of yore.
Their lacy flowers shine so red,
How could such beauty come from trees so dead?
From withered old trunk and wrinkled old limb,
From cracked yellow leaves that are broken and dim.
How did such fairness, how did such light,
Come from such shrivelled and broken old might?
May these flowers glow, may they blossom and spread,
To tell all the world, what’s old is not dead.