Once upon a time on the East Coast

I came across this wonderful piece of bush poetry by East Coast farmer Graeme Williams and asked his permission to publish it. It recalls a distant time that may come to be known as the BIP (Before Identity Politics) Era. I have left the punctuation as it is – that is to say, non-existent – so as not to detract from its rough and raw charm.

 Dear Aunty Jacinda

  I need to write to you again

Because this ridiculous Three Waters nonsense

  needs rapidly flushing down the drain

I was born and raised in Tokomaru Bay

  and for that reason luckier than most

I think that you and the rest of the country

  should behave as we do on the Coast

 

You see when I was at primary school

And  it’s only now I stop to think

That all my mates had brownish skin

  and only two of us had pink

Freckles I had plenty of

   and copped a bit of flak

I learnt that when you cop some flak

  you simply throw it back

 

Nothing was a problem

  cause we thought we were the same

It mattered not our heritage

  or from where or how we came

We lived a rich and happy life

  the envy I suggest of most

A mutual respect by unity

  that is synonymous with the Coast

 

Our forefathers worked the land together

  having cleared it from the bush

They also toiled in the trenches together

  when shove it came to push

In every way in every respect

  they were equally brothers in arms

Whether it was at Gallipoli

  on the rugby field or farms

 

I took a stand at Ihungia*

  the year was 1979

An 8-stand gang of Ju Maraki’s

  the only pinkish skin was mine

I was treated as an equal

  after all it’s all we knew

A pity the rest of the country

  do not do what coasters do

 

5  till  5  the daily runs

  there were tens of thousands to be shorn

My contribution was minimal

  but no criticism there was borne

Legend Frankie Wharehinga

  one of the most gracious men you’d meet

Shearing right beside me

   500, consistently and neat

 

A beer together at knock off time

  it was always Lion Red

Heaps of fun and laughter

  to the quarters from  the shed

Showers were by hierarchy

  despite it being an English tank

We were in a gang together

  but we never preceded Frank

 

You see the water belonged to all of us

  and equally we did rely

Ownership’s a crock of shit

  when its falling from the sky

We’re all in the same shower together

  and of that we should be proud

The shower belongs to all of us

When she’s falling from the cloud

 

Ihungia’s now in carbon credits

  and that’s a bigger crock of shit

For when it comes to logic

  There’s not even a teenie weenie bit

Perhaps Aunty Jacinda

  you could explain to me just why

How a German owning a Kiwi tree

  can pump endless crap into the sky.

 

I worry about the future

  for our grandies and tiny totters

With the illogic, logic of carbon credits

  and the bureaucracy of 3 “whaters”

“whater” we going to do about it

  “whater” we going to say

“whater” we going to do in the shit

  when sure will come the day

 

I return you back to Ihungia

  an iconic station before the trees

Beef and lamb and orchards

  with honey birds and bees

I think of all our forebears

  and the ilk of those like Frank

Logic says,  3 “whaters” and carbon credits

  best put in a septic tank.

*Ihungia: one of the last great sheep and cattle stations on the East Coast, now planted in forestry and overseas-owned.