Some Say

Some say History is ugly Some say It didn’t happen Some Just don’t want to acknowledge Some Just want to view the art Some Don’t have a voice I enter the old home Via the back door Past gardens full of opium poppies The old lady Waddling ahead Is so proud of them I dare not tell her “I’ll put the kettle on” As she places an old black pot Upon the wood fire stove “The old man’s in there” She pointed a bony finger At a doorway A tune floated through I enter a gloomy room The old man Seated in an even older chair Shrouded in frosted light From an opaque window He looks at me And smiles Showing dirty crooked teeth He laughs a little And continues The tune on an antique accordion I take a seat opposite Watch his frail fingers Fly across the buttons His family Has been here since settlement The road is named after them He stops playing And we talk About history He speaks of Scottish ancestry Points to old smoke-stained photos On the mantle He speaks proudly Of the District And potatoes I inquire Of First Nation People He speaks of sermons In Sunday church As a child And when the wrath of God Had finished Families separate Women to morning tea Men to the Hunt “We shot them from horse back Didn’t matter Women or child They all got it” His head went back As if someone had shot him And he laughed My gut churned A silent cry “Here’s your tea dear” The old lady smiled down On me This whole scene Was so surreal I wanted to scream Some say History is ugly Some say It didn’t happen Some Just don’t want to acknowledge Some Just want to buy the art Some No longer have a voice