Mere settled onto the mat and spread the kākahu across her lap.
The afternoon was still. The Waikato moved behind its fringe of toetoe, brown and slow, carrying the particular flat light of a cloudless autumn afternoon. She had brought the mat down early and set it under the tī kōuka, where the long leaves gave shade through the warmest part of the day. By now the shade had shifted and the sun came through the leaves in thin stripes across the cloak's pale surface.
The mat was woven from split harakeke, dried and worked. She had made it herself some years ago, during a period when she was making mats for various purposes — floor mats, carrying mats, the small flat mat she kept in the kete for setting tools on. This working mat was larger than the others and more finely woven. She had taken some care with it, wanting it to be comfortable for long sessions. It was large enough that she could sit cross-legged on it with the folded kākahu across her lap and still have space beside her for the kete and the water bottle. The weave was tight enough that the ground's texture did not come through.
The mat had been to the river bank so many times that the base surface had worn slightly, the harakeke fibres on the underside smoothed by contact with the ground. The upper surface was still as clean as she had kept it, brushed free of any debris after each session.