In forest hush and emerald shade,  
where kōwhai sways in shadows laid,  
the kererū hums with weighted grace,  
a feathered priest in sacred space.  

She wears the sky upon her breast—  
her holy crest, a maker’s quest.  
Her wings, like cloaks of green and blue,  
stir veil-thin realms our eyes see through.  

She feasts on berries, fruits of light,  
that ripen sweet in day and night.  
When she takes flight, the branches bend,  
as trees bow low, her grace ascends.  

Her whoosh, a wind that parts the veil,  
a spiral song, a Spirit’s trail—  
she speaks no word, yet all may know  
her boundless tone from worlds below.  

When she ascends, so plump and bright,  
she joins the root to sacred height.  
Earth feeds her frame, sky lifts her call—  
she weaves the dance between them all.  

O kererū, winged grace, you glide,  
to stir our hearts where dreams abide.  
A living psalm, a breath, a sign,  
where earth and heaven’s stars align.