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
Copyright © Dominic Middleton | Year Posted 2023
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