Widowed, I came north with three small girls.
A nail was all it took – a gash that swelled
and he with it, three days. He died in pain.
Despair was my bitter secret, married again
for need, not love, to a Gospel-harsh
and mortgaged farmer. I bore him a boy.
Owen Vincent Freeman – how his names glow
on the bronze plaque, as if we had foreseen
death and glory. ‘He died for Freedom and Honour.’
I see his little legs running to school
over frosty paddocks. I can forgive so much
but never this. The blast took off his head.
These green hills of Kamo – see how the sun
shines on them after rain. Two of my girls
are buried in the churchyard, Owen in France.
I listen to the tui, smell cut grass,
read and remember. If I believe in God
there’s no love lost. Here, we are out of touch.