Barefoot in the Sun
Manuka rod, string, a hook on the end with
a scrappy morsel of meat and barefoot to
the wharf where it was forbidden to play.
Cranes, grown men and language.
Fish, or no fish, who cares, it is Saturday.
Toys and novelty unlimited by a kid’s imagination.
The stuff adults slip their way
who remember their own childhood.
In patched trousers back up the hill.
And the Lyttleton hills in my grandad’s day
Are just as steep as today when I visit,
Ponder, track his footsteps.
The French connection. Pierre Feron of Akaroa,
Lyttleton, then to Christchurch. My mum
Youngest of seven daughters.
“Your grandad did not trust the bank.
Buried his savings in the back garden.”
At eleven years, able to work, he signed up to
New Zealand railways. Kind and grandfatherly,
“Come here lad.”, the Station Master –
Pierre Feron passes matriculation.
Promotion and eventually
A signal box operator.
Maybe, just maybe, some loose change
In a block of weeds in Avonside
Buried in the debris, house gone,
tremblement de terre.
David in Pen and Pics 