Daffodils at Barhill.

We took the road from State Highway One,

headed straight for alpine hills;

inland from Rakaia a bit,

we found the wee village of Barhill.

Spring blossoms obscured our old house

by the corner of Lauriston Road.

Re-visiting my birthplace

long forgotten memories flowed.

When I was just a little boy

things towered over me:

I remember a hole in a huge hedge

of macrocarpa tree.
Still there today, that green portal,

once gateway to my home,

where country field and riverbed

were free for me to roam.
The earliest memory that I know

of flood waters all around,
but cradled in a wheelbarrow
I was safe from flooded ground.

Budded trees at the end of winter time,

spring jonquils' perfume strong,

I travelled back just recently

I had been away too long.

Oak, Birch and Sycamore,

the tree-lined avenues-

still as I remembered them

when they came into view-
planted by the farming squire

recreating English style.

A vibrant little village they tried,

It lasted mere a short while.
Surrounding the old stone church,

gay yellow daffodils

still welcome the few worshippers,                     

the parishioners of Barhill.

Just down along the Lauriston road

is the village cemetery:

there lies my dear young sister's grave

we had travelled far to see.

Through the tall wrought iron gates

we walked along the green.

Her simple rock headstone awaited

In such a picturesque scene.

Upon her stone I laid two flower

of bright yellow daffodil,

I picked them from the stone-walled grounds

of the old church at Barhill.
She lies to gaze on our old home

down at the corner there:

she must have loved this quiet place

to want to repose here.

Life takes amazing twisting track,

sometimes it draws full circle;
my young sister's grave now calls me back
to our birthplace of Barhill.

For June.

The small Barhill cemetery with the Southern Alps in the background.

..................................................................................................................................................................

Large farming estates were the backbone of New Zealand's agricultural economy in the late 1800's. An English gentry owner of a landholding south of the Rakaia River in South Canterbury, New Zealand, built an English style village for his many farm labourers. Laid out on a square grid pattern, the village street edges were planted with trees to create that English village scene. Mechanisation of farms during the 50's caused de-population of our small country villages and towns as labourers sought work and new lives in our cities. Under those now massive trees a few cottages remain clustered around the original stone church, which still is haven for the few folk living there and on farms in the district.

I've tried to describe the village, how to drive there, and what to look for.
Devastating floods were common on the Plains until massive stopbanks along major Canterbury rivers were completed during the 1950's/60's.

Oak, Birch and Sycamore remain the village lane names.

The church still ministers to its small congregation.

Our house, one of the few left, has been a home to many families over the past 60 years.

This poem about returning to home is submitted over here at Roys place royd-spiltmilk.blogspot.com/

Check out all the poems submitted for his Poe a tree hop.

All photos by Jim McIntosh.

Daffodils at Barhill.

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