On the bus from mountain lakeside
my friend and I travelled down
from hills over plains to
Invercargill on the coast.

Crossing farmland with prolific
crops and sheep through little
farming villages we picked
up people going to town.

At the little village, Dipton,
impatient at the wait, we
eavesdropped the driver’s
conversation which held us
stalled at the roadside.

A farmer refused to leave
his shearing to have his
false teeth mended in town.
The driver accepted these
teeth from the farmer’s wife
to pass to the dentist’s
receptionist at Invercargill’s
regional bus terminal.

We blithe healthy young
students giggled at these
teeth all the way to town.

Nearly fifty years later
I remember those teeth
with all the news of our PM,
most famous son of Dipton.


4 thoughts on “Dipton

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