Waimate, New Zealand, December 24, 1835

A ring of children singing Christmas songs
and taking tea in chequered vests and blouses.
The youngsters from the missionary houses
clanging cymbals, drums and tiny gongs.
I never saw a nicer or more merry
group. And happily I spent the night.
To think that at this very spot the blight
of heathen murder spread, and not so very
long ago. Today is market day
when natives from surrounding hamlets bring
potatoes, pigs, tobacco, corn and dung.
The Davies’ eldest son takes everything
in hand, the man of business, one might say,
relaxed and fluent in the native tongue.

From Rick Mullin’s new book, Sonnets from the Voyage of the Beagle