House and Land Poem by Allen Curnow

 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 fowl house

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.