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Now in my time echoes
  I remember then
  my full days in a life
  when I was ten.
We lived in a shadow 
  much greater 
  at the gates of Eden
and its dormant crater.

We’d climb its heights
  and to the top race
  like Hillary and Tenzing 
  up the south face.
On our backsides slidin’
  to the rocks below
  from whence the 
hot lava used to flow.

See the old white house 
  at 89 Owens Road -
  the grass I with an old 
  push blade mowed.
Where from my lookout
  upstairs bedroom
  I did see the terraced 
spring flowers bloom.

Outside playin’ cricket
  all summer long,
  and inside we were
  masters of ping pong!
In our Epsom livin’ room 
  my family and me
  saw the moonlandin’
and a war afar on TV.

On our black ‘n white set 
  I saw The Flyin’ Nun,
  Gunsmoke and Bonanza 
  and My Three Sons.
When my birthday cake
  burnt ten candles 
  and I wore short pants 
and Roman sandals.

Playin’ canasta dealin’
  on the dinner table
  and hell, even a séance 
  if game and able.
Spirits from the spirit
  world did roam 
  and spelled out to
our guests “go home”.

Meetin’ my good mate 
  at his back door
  who lived close by above 
  the corner shoe store.
Then off to school we’d go
  with our duffel bags 
  foolin’ and skylarkin’
like proper scallywags.

Listenin’ to my transistor 
  radio all the while
  tuned to 1480 kilohertz 
  on top of the dial.
Hip happenin’ sounds
  of Radio Hauraki
  out in the gulf on 
a pirate ship called Tiri.

Stoppin’ by the bakery
  for a cream bun
  and a big jam donut 
  or sweet sally lunn.
Off down Valley Road
  lickin’ my lips
  eatin’ a hot meat pie
or some fish ‘n chips.

The war memorial gates
  through we’d pass
  and battles long ago
  we’d learn in class.
And for their sacrifice 
  and heroic acts
  we made poppies
for our brave Anzacs.

Before the bells sounded
  its first mornin’ ring
  we’d all be flyin’
  on the moari swing.
Games on the courts 
  or a fast tag to yield
  playin’ bullrush 
on the football field.

Collectin’ newspaper for
  famine in Africa
  raisin’ money to feed
  the starvin’ in Biafra.
In class my cool teacher 
  playin’ folk songs 
  strummin’ his guitar 
and we all sang along.

Singin’ “where have all 
  the flowers gone?
  Young girls pick 
  them every one”…
and “Oma rapeti, rabbit 
  run, run, run”
  playin’ Maori stick 
games just havin’ fun.

My lady teacher with
  her beehive hair
  wore a crochet dress
  and wore it with flair.
But I was badly smitten 
  with a pretty girl
  and loved to watch
her tumble and twirl.

Drawin’ native birds
  that can’t fly,
  readin’ tales of Hinemoa 
  and Tutanekai.
Weavin’ flax and pullin’
  diamonds on a string 
  waitin’ for the next 
playtime bell to ring.

In single file marchin’ 
  from the school
  with our towel and togs 
  to the swimmin’ pool -
Eden boys and girls 
  eager to dive in
  for a gold prized 50
metre certificate to win.

And muster the class in 
  the projection room
  and at the spangled ceilin’
  see its stars illume.
Our Milky Way mural 
  hung so surreal
  as we sat and watched 
an old 35mm newsreel.

But soon fun did turn 
  to palpable fear
  oft when all the class 
  trembled to hear.
Read to the children who 
  were quiet as a mouse
  was the dental list 
for the Murder House!

A fate worse than death, 
  the whinin’ drill
  to bore and clean 
  and with mercury fill.
Where big ar-se needles 
  may dull the pain
  yet the screams of 
boys and girls remain.

After school in uniform
  and hat on parade
  I marched in the army 
  in the Boys Brigade.
But on weekends roamin’
  the neighbourhood 
  in search of adventure 
we weren’t so good.

Explorin’ in The Pines 
  with a flashlight
  back when it was still
  a construction site.
On Guy Fawkes night 
  from our pockets
  lightin’ firecrackers 
and our skyrockets.

Armed and dangerous 
  ready to throw
  with red Double Happy 
  packs lit to blow.
On nighttime mission 
  on ninja patrol
  detonatin’ milk bottles 
whoa! Fire in the hole!

To the Crystal Palace
  and catch a flick
  lest my poor mother 
  test my arithmetic.
Or off to Eden Park when 
  the mighty Auks host
  sat with my mates 
behind the goalpost.

With my dad and older 
  brother at the track
  hearin’ the hoofs pound
  and the whips crack.
At Ellerslie or Avondale
  or Alexandra Park
  with my Best Bets 
for my picks to mark.

On the Sabbath ‘neath
  cross and spires
  in Sunday School 
  at old Greyfriars.
Until the day my time 
  comes to an end
  I’ll remember way 
back when I was ten.


Written: January 2016

  
Pics above: My home when I was ten
                 and picturesque Mt Eden.
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