Where I'm from
I am from tea cups, from Twinings and tannin.
I am from the haunted bathroom,
(cold and primrose yellow,
feeling dead eyes always on you).
I am from the chestnut tree I planted and forgot,
tendrils of scent trailing my path.
I'm from the turbulent Christmas
and the Norman build,
from Ida Violet and George.
I am from the never-shut door
and the home-knitted scarf of rough wool.
From elbows off the table
and ungrateful little witch
I am from paper cut-outs of Jesus,
with pictures to colour
and memory verses each week.
I'm from the East, the town,
scones and Sunday roast.
From the motorbike my mother took apart
and couldn't reassemble,
and the eighteen month immigration to New Zealand.
I am from the brown suitcase under the wardrobe
certificates and jewellery,
passports and old documents,
memories made solid in a gold pocket watch
that no longer ticks,
and a paua shell picked up on the beach,
and a passport for a six month old baby.
I don't normally do poetry, but this caught my attention. Try it yourself.