Norfolk Island

Postcard (Sept 2008)
 
By the roads of craggy-clifféd Norfolk,
Sleek cattle graze with Indian freedom,
And plump, hued, feral chooks do peck and poke,
Amid fragile island pines. No fiefdom
This, but a self-governing almost-state
That’s income-taxless, friendly, and sedate.


How It Was Then: I
 
Norfolk’s grimmest history
Is of men in travail,
Of leg-irons, starvation,
And the cat-o’-nine-tail.
 
But up on Quality Row,
Only yards from these lives,
Blithe afternoon teas were served
To the garrison wives.

 











How It Was Then: II
 
The Norfolk graveyard is convincingly cared for:
Its neat-clipped sward gleams in the sunshine
And false flowers splash pied hues on grey and white stone.
Beside it, waves crash on the shore-line,
While opposing green hillsides reach steep for the sky,
And are climbed by ubiquitous pine.
 
But within this serene site, there’s a bleak story
Told in the section nearest the waves. 
There rest the oldest stones, deeply pitted and worn,
Each with names that it hopefully saves.
They record that most of those under them were 
No more than babes when laid in their graves.