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We spoke the history of Flankers under the roof
Of your old school
And I, O I went interviewing for the proof
I have that little book lost somewhere
But in my heart I read it still
The little brown church upon the hill
The iron caterpillars clawing into stone
The thrill of the poor man to capture and own
An heritage where ancestors blood was spilled.

King, the first boy born there lost his life fishing
Beside his father in the airport bog, we 
Wept for them three weeks and more, singing
And making light to ease the heavy hearts of loss
Brownie, the first man to settle after years there
On the estate smelling the wine of sugar
Roasting in the sun. I saw your son
In New York and was not intimidate of his skills
In maths again, he was just a another statistics
Like myself, and our hearts were cistern broken
Before our birth.

The first girl born there is now an officer of the law
O could we run those days again
Crazy in the childhood of our dream
The choir of birds in fruiting trees
The endless complain of working bees ...
O their nectar made all sorrows sweet
The evening in the sand bed
Pretending we were Quarrie or Bolt today
And the stars older than us
Longing for us to return their dust.

I wrote the history of that place ... the Easter Rebellion
Kenyatta, Desmond, Cyril, Jiggs, Dragon
And King Baz ... O that was a brilliant son. Corbett
Only walk and complain about dead politics now
But there was another time, we were young
And the sun was our liquid gold to dream
They came with the constabularies and machines
That tore rocks and buildings up
But could not spill us from our cup
We drank it all.

Today across the globe we are gone
None return to die
Where they began
And so lonely now the forest obsolete
The dried out swamp
The tourist that will not see again the lamp
Of Bredda, Nunsa and I
Catching crabs ... I left a tree my kite to fly
An old tree that entangled me ...
The history that began me before I finished it.
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