On Leaving Northcote, N.Z. for Ireland….
Age 11.
A Short Story in Short Lines.
Lying in that creaking Rathgar bed
beside those dusty books,
I slept alone with heavy heart.
As though placed in some orphanage.
Old Ireland seemed so alien,
Dark… raining days along the quays.
And all I knew of living life,
Seemed snatched away from me.
New Zealand was the land of dreams,
No tarmac roads or fenced in rules.
Climbing the tall Pohutukawa trees,
Like primates…shooting shanghai stones.
After our barefoot walk from school,
Charging down the fern lined bank,
we came onto to the sandy Beach.…
For hours we swam like golden eels.
Clinging to a long strong rope,
We swung over the lagoon.
With Porky PeeWee pink of cheek,
and puffing as he clung.
The Paw Paw and the Nectarines,
The Tamarillo Trees.
The Lemons with their large white seeds…
And possums, swaying in the trees,
crooning to the moon.
But now…
The streets were brick and stone,
and pious nuns wore long black cloaks..
The pale cheeked priests were stern and grim.
And called us Sinners….everyone !
But then came music…Blues and Soul
And stars broke through the heavy clouds
and constellations glowed.,
Pianos jazzed…and trumpets roared…
Millie met her Lollipop …… Fats found his thrill,
The wondrous age of Rock was born,
My tranny* took me to them all… (*transistor)
And life in Ireland soon became the norm.
Kristine Byrne. Oct.2020