Verses from Maoriland/After the Flood
AFTER THE FLOOD
Here, in this bend of the creek, in the rushes, and long lush grasses, Wild white violets nestle, and musk in the water-weeds; Here there is stillness and shelter, for the wandering wind as it passes Is caught in the tall green flax, and dies in the rushes and reeds.
Only the roar of the creek, half-hidden in flax and toi, Swirling in darksome pools under the Maori-head, Only the bleat of sheep, and a drover’s distant cooee, Only the bark of dogs to break the sleep of the dead!
Silence and stillness else, and westward across the plain, Over hedges, and homesteads, and paddocks of wheat and rye, Shoulder, and glacier, and peak, range upon range again, Blue rise the Alps in the distance kissing the soft blue sky.
This is the place where we found him, here, with his face to the skies, Cast by the whirl of the creek, like a broken straw, on the bank; Here, at the pitiless sun he stared with unseeing eyes, Neither despairing, nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly blank.
Snow? we had plenty of snow, that winter of seventy-one, Snow on the lowlands, and snow on the highlands, and snow on the range; Never a month of Spring, for all with a rush and run, Winter turned into Summer;—folks called it a curséd change;—
For a warm nor’wester raged the whole of a windy week, Melted the Alpine snow, and, after a day of doubt,We woke in the dead of night to the roar of the angry creek, Woke in the wild, wild night to know that the floods were out.
We in the homestead watched after that weary night, Watched through the weary day, while the water rose to the door;Watched, while the children shouted, and welcomed the flood with delight, Sailed their paper boats, and paddled about on the floor.
On rushed the yellow flood, crashing, and dashing, and hurling Timber, and logs, like straws in the foam of the angry deep,And, as the day wore on, we heard through the roar of its swirling, Piteous, the low of cattle, and the cry of terrified sheep.
Then when the flood went down, paddocks and roads were strewn With timber and broken branches, half-buried in oozy mud; Carcases hither and thither, palings and posts torn down, Flax and toi uprooted, traced the course of the flood.
This is the place where he lay with his wan white face to the skies, Caught here against a gorse-stump amongst the reeds on the bank; Here, at the merciless sun he stared with unseeing eyes, Neither despairing, nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly blank.
And here we stood in silence;—the shepherd Jim and I,— Stood, and stared at the stillness in the staring face of the dead; And Jim knelt down in the rushes, and closed the expressionless eye, And covered the corpse with his coat; “For the sake of the Mother,” he said.
He had but a pipe in his pocket, and matches sodden and damp, Never a mark, nor word, to trace his home or his name; “Only a swagger,” they said; and nobody misses a tramp, Houseless, and nameless,—who cared whither he went, or came?
We buried him here where we found him, a glorious summer day, With the wild wind rustling the flax-blades, and the scent of gorse in the air;— Here, with the thyme and violets, we laid the stranger away, And left him there in the stillness with never a plaint nor prayer.
Gentleman, swagger, clown—what difference, dying thus? In the face of the pitiless Present, what were the things of the Past? Gentle, or simple, what matter? it was nothing to him or to us, We are all of us gentle enough, and simple too, at the last!
Yet the shepherd Jim, and I, had looked on the face of the dead,— Looked on a dogged jaw, and forehead solid and square;— There was will in that iron jaw, and force in that massive head;— Drowned, like a rat in the creek, with that power and intellect there!
And somewhere out in the distance was there a mother, or wife, Waiting, and watching, and praying as only women can pray? Waiting, and watching, and praying in vain for a wasted life, And a nameless tramp who perished,—how many miles away?
Aye, you may wait, ye women, and pray, and weep again, Weep for the wasted talent, weep for the wasted life! The whole wide world weeps with you, the whole world’s tears are vain, Even as yours, O Mother, even as yours, O Wife!
O Life! thou art riddle of riddles! for lo, as the years roll by, We also have vexed our spirits since the human epoch began, Who live, eat, drink, and are merry, who suffer, and sin, and die, Content to be amongst many;—then how for the hundredth man?
Might he have risen to lead us, the many, the common crowd, To leave his mark upon us by right of a powerfuller brain? Was he with higher feeling, and keener thought endowed, This tramp, this nameless swagger, whose life was void and vain?
Ah well, let him sleep in peace, while the waterweeds and mosses Nestle under the raupo in the quiet bend of the creek; Life is a difficult thing with its longings, its loves, and its losses, May Death be an easier matter to all of us strong or weak!