Uncle Jim
and his brothers came home
from the world and its War,
Jim without visible wounds
but odder than before.
His time in uniform away
had taken in Gallipoli -
about which this nephew
never heard him say
a single word - long after,
not even Anzac Day.
He watched his brothers court
and marry, farm and prosper,
bring up sons for the next war
in which they duly fought.
Enough for him to till
just one acre, flood-plain soil,
watching rain, sun and his labour
produce the food he needed,
rolling his own cigarette, seated
on the plank step of a two room shed
he called his whare - [pronounced whorry]
his hut in Maori -
a language he did not speak
but respected as local,
though the local Maori
were seldom seen today -
maybe an old woman with tattooed chin
glimpsed on the edge of town.
It was all white man's country
now - stop banks tamed
the Tutaekuri - mainly
for grazing sheep - Maori
shearers were good value,
strong and fast also in Rugby.
Jim's world extended now
as far as he could bike through
in half a day, biking home
for a solitary evening meal
of his own potatoes, maybe veal
from his friend the butcher.
Neighbours were few but kindly.
Life was serene - only
his sisters were annoying
when they said it's bad to be alone.
His youngest nephew, I'd wonder
would he ever ask me inside? would
his dog come out from under
the whare where it took its food?
'What name did my sister Kay give you?'
he'd always ask, saying 'Max!
what sort of name is that? Turkish?'
(She'd told me it was Scottish.)
'Well, I'm calling you Peter -
is that all right? Dogs are called Max.'
Whistling, calling 'Rex,
come and say hello to Peter.'
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