House and Land, Allen Curnow

Wasn’t this the site, asked the historian,

Of the original homestead?
Couldn’t tell you, said the cowman;
I just live here, he said,
Working for old Miss Wilson
Since the old man’s been dead.

Moping under the bluegums

The dog trailed his chain
From the privy as far as the fowlhouse
And back to the privy again,
Feeling the stagnant afternoon
Quicken with the smell of rain.

There sat old Miss Wilson,

With her pictures on the wall,
The baronet uncle, mother’s side,
And one she called The Hall;
Taking tea from a silver pot
For fear the house might fall.

People in the colonies, she said,

Can’t quite understand…
Why, from Waiau to the mountains
It was all father’s land.

She’s all of eighty said the cowman,

Down at the milking-shed.
I’m leaving here next winter.
Too bloody quiet, he said.

The spirit of exile, wrote the historian,

Is strong in the people still.

He reminds me rather, said Miss Wilson,

Of Harriet’s youngest, Will.

The cowman, home from the shed, went drinking

With the rabbiter home from the hill.
The sensitive nor’west afternoon
Collapsed, and the rain came;
The dog crept into his barrel
Looking lost and lame.
But you can’t attribute to either
Awareness of what great gloom
Stands in a land of settlers
With never a soul at home.