JAMES GROVE LAUNCHED INTO ETERNITY

shamed

            by ill fame,

                        i withered at hard stares and shocked gapes;

                        new shoes bit, coarse shirt scraped,   

                                    a chain gang chum on a scurvy

            hulk.

            How i sulked!

                        The Captivity, moored at Portsea,

                        was floating hell.  My ears,

                                    stinging with horrid oaths, obscene

            chaunts,

            suffered taunts.

                        Shrank from being noticed by the world,

                        on the Calcutta hurled

                                    to never a more barren land.

            a

            poor lifer,

                        done for smashing queer screens.  Bank of Eng-

                        land notes.  Iron-forged slangs

                                    may’ve branded my soul but i

            burnt

            to repent.

                        Salvation in prayer.  Hadn’t God

                        redeemed the morning-drop?

                                    What sweet draught to set foot on firm

            land

            again and

                        wipe clean the slate.  On the sand-swept, fly-

                        blown Sullivan Bay, i

                                    made soap from kelp and tallow and

            stored

            in casks for

                        Port Jackson.  i brewed from native trees

                        the tastiest black teas.

                                    In Hobart Town i cut rafters

  and

            rails, so grand

                        a house i designed and manufact-

                        ory.  No place else that

                                    i wouldst lieve be, bound in heart and

            law.

            Esteemed, for

                        David Collins smoked a pipe with me,

                        Susannah and Robbie

                                    Knopwood.  Our conversation was

            so

  sweet, although

 i still image that noose each morn.

 Fortunate or forlorn?

                Pardoned by Gov’nor King,

            i’ve

  surely strived

            to expiate my crime, so my dear

            son shows no shame or fear

                         when i’m called to cross the black sea.

            the

            Redeemer

comforts me these long nights of the soul.

At sea, fought grave perils,

               a humble follower of Christ;

            yet

            i do fret.

                        In Eden, hard pebbles act as curse.

                        To meet my God i durst

                                  make journey Home where i was launched.

                               Michael Small               February 6-10, 2004