My childhood is inside this box of noise.
I found it at the back of a shed,
Wires twisted and its coat enslaved in dust.
My parents bought this when they were poor.
Mr Fraser spoke from here. On the war.
And Aunt Daisy, live from Wellington.
How wonderful to hear her voice
Away up there, in the settling frost.
And dad and Dave – Lord, what a laugh.
So they said.
They sat around the dancing fire
Listening to the far world.
Thank goodness for the serials.
And the unvarnished truth:
It’s seven o’clock: here is the news.
A woven face and wooden lattice
To sift the voices of the land