Letter to Rosina
Rosa smiled at me
this morning Nana –
that same blue-eyed
cheeky grin you made
langered on the brandy
and the voices of my uncles –
in that railway house
in Moera.
Irish eyes and Danny Boy –
washboards, spoons and bottle tops
as you handed out the lollies
and the chips,
the blackberry nip
and lemonade, to all
us hundred cousins –
in that railway house in Moera.
Three generations on
I tell Rosa about those nights –
the fifteen children that you bore,
the way you lived,
the way you died.
You’re a mythology to her –
a naming saint, story-time matriarch.
And she’s still too young to understand,
why my eyes are brown
and hers have come from you.
How you were as great a tyrant
to those fifteen children, as
you were a force of kindness
to us grandkids.
Robert Stratford has published poetry in previous editions of 4th Floor Literary Journal as well as anthologies of the New Zealand Poetry Society. He is currently working full-time on a PhD exploring ecological education. An enthusiastic consumer of most foods, the occasional feast of blue cod and chips remains his very favourite.