Our job, he said, was to take the battle forward.
Tight-tied, the thin brown sticks of their outer fence
gave nothing away. Our biggest guns had answered
a haka that shook the trees. We charged into silence.
St Mary Redcliffe and the docks of Bristol
were home. They told me stories of savage chiefs
disciplined to trade, reading the Bible.
I took the shilling. Mother hid her grief.
Their fire came up at us under the palisade.
Right of me, then left, soldiers went down.
When we took the pa it was empty. Wounded, I bled.
Settlers blame us for defeats. Trapped in their town
they will bury me, somewhere inscribe my name
and soon forget. The medal I won will go home.