Energy
I. to have a legacy
My family bach — it’s hard to call it a ‘beach house’ like everyone does nowadays.
Three rooms. Couple of possums.
It’s falling apart,
the magnum opus of my craftsman great-great-grandfather
from Liverpool, he cut his teeth in Whangamōmona.
He built the roads there
they didn’t last either —
neither did Whangamōmona
130, 126, 125 people.
There’s a hedge by the bach
My uncle can’t stand to cut it
he can hardly stand on his own any more.
We are getting complaints from the new neighbours.
All the neighbours are new.
They buy ‘beach houses’ because it’s the in-thing,
either that, or they’re buying bungalows for retirement.
Those ones are dead before long.
New ones take their place,
Driveways glutted with fresh tyre marks.
II. time immaterial
There was a solitary pine in the woods,
a big fuck-off kind of tree
383 years old—or 185.
You’d think it had the time to spread its roots
all the way to Waitangi, or Kororāreka.
You’d think someone would’ve heard it fall.
There were millions of people around.
Light permeates the roof; water too
dreams and tears from four generations.
The floorboards groan
under the stress of cleaning
so Uncle John doesn’t think we’re untidy.
III. untidy or not,
my cousins still play in the field.
My mum and aunt still drink in the bedroom,
laughing until they cough on dust.
My dad and uncle still throw dice by the hedge
UE BOOM. Adele crackles.
Frisbees fly in wild, uncatchable arcs.
My grandma lowers herself into a white chair, knees like floorboards.
What happens when we lose all of this?
Words unspoken. What do we lose of ourselves?
IV. acculturation
Standing before the pine, my artisan ancestor
hefts his axe.
My grandma told me the stump was as broad as she is tall
That might have been impressive,
once upon a time.
V. continuity
When a tree falls a hundred saplings
surge through the decay.
My science teacher taught me energy can’t be created
or destroyed.
My baby cousin
stares up at me with wide eyes.
VI. the conservation of energy
————–I can hear the bulldozer coming;
it grinds around the corner, misplaced amidst
rural roads.
Gravel spits and scatters before it.
————–I can hear the chainsaw buzzing;
the forest has never sounded more silent.
Cameron Lewes Murray
Year 13
Wellington College
