A True Story
17/4/09: In many ways this is a young country. My father's grandfather built the house my father lived for the first ten years of his life. A row of trees tower over the lane that stands beside it; I don't think I could put my arms around them. 'Your great-grandfather planted those, too,' Dad says. Two days ago he told us about the sawmill that processed native timbers when they cleared the land. A woman he knew when he was a child could hop from stump to stump all the way from her house to the Colyton school.
As we drive he reels off the names of the people who farmed this land fifty years ago, and I watch as white butterflies flutter frantically in the slipstream of the car. Others stray in front of our bumper. Butterflies are not renowned for their sense.
As we drive he reels off the names of the people who farmed this land fifty years ago, and I watch as white butterflies flutter frantically in the slipstream of the car. Others stray in front of our bumper. Butterflies are not renowned for their sense.