Poem — Hubert Witheford

Snapshot 1938

‘Althea Woodhouse is a very nice girl’
Aunt Olive said cheerfully —
My father dead,
My mother, Olive thought, not all that bright —
She felt she ought to do something about my life

Her own having been quite miserable,
Stranded
As a kind of governess.

She had cause to be worried about her nephew
Who was starting to sound like a fascist
Or communist.

Althea and I are glaring at each other still
In the dining room
Of a Hawkes Bay hotel
After the ox-tail soup and over the lamb-chops
And each wanting to be
With someone we had yet to meet.

 

Hubert Witheford

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