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I am from coal, from beech trees, mountains, and the rain that thunders on a tin roof.
I am from the roaring Tasman, the untamed coast, damp, verdant.
I am from the blooming rata, dripping ferns, gorse, the vegetable garden, the plot of carnations and irises.
From the widows, Bertha and Nellie, and from Ella.
I am from toil and sacrifice, from hardship fled, from adventure.
I am from those who have no time for religion, from the weekend half G’s of beer and a wee sip of sherry, from weekly trips to the library, from the silent reading books by the fierce heat of the open fire.
I am from Yorkshire and Glasgow, from fresh dug spuds and beans and strawberries eaten straight from the vines before we got caught, from cake tins groaning with baking, from home made jam and preserved fruit lined up in jars on shelves. I am from knitting, knitting, knitting, and beautifully embroidered everyday linen.
I am from the coal mines and gold dredges, from letters and treasures from ‘home’, from far away relatives never seen.
I am from wild beaches, silent lakes, babbling rivers. I am from long backyard cricket games in the magic dusk, from bicycle rides all over the place, from regular excursions over the hill to the big city. I am from long car-sick journeys that end in picnics and cold water swims in lakes and lagoons under endless blue skies.
I am from the roaring Tasman, the untamed coast, damp, verdant.
I am from the blooming rata, dripping ferns, gorse, the vegetable garden, the plot of carnations and irises.
From the widows, Bertha and Nellie, and from Ella.
I am from toil and sacrifice, from hardship fled, from adventure.
I am from those who have no time for religion, from the weekend half G’s of beer and a wee sip of sherry, from weekly trips to the library, from the silent reading books by the fierce heat of the open fire.
I am from Yorkshire and Glasgow, from fresh dug spuds and beans and strawberries eaten straight from the vines before we got caught, from cake tins groaning with baking, from home made jam and preserved fruit lined up in jars on shelves. I am from knitting, knitting, knitting, and beautifully embroidered everyday linen.
I am from the coal mines and gold dredges, from letters and treasures from ‘home’, from far away relatives never seen.
I am from wild beaches, silent lakes, babbling rivers. I am from long backyard cricket games in the magic dusk, from bicycle rides all over the place, from regular excursions over the hill to the big city. I am from long car-sick journeys that end in picnics and cold water swims in lakes and lagoons under endless blue skies.
I am, I am.
I am grateful to the brave Grandfathers that foresaw a better life and crossed the globe to untimely early deaths.
I think they'd be proud.
3 comments:
Yes Pixie, I know where your from - I've been there.( I've been down the Dobson Mine )
That was a lovely post,Thanks!
Enjoy your trip to OZ. See you here again soon West Coast Kiwi, from North Island Kiwi.. your that now too of course.
New Zealanders have so much common experience, don't we? I wonder if it's the same for younger generations?
Aww, just lovely!
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