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| 'Now that we are in the country / language locates us / like a birthmark ...' |
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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| '... and I remember our yellow kitchen walls / mud at the gateway to the diary ...' |
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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The Literary world stops at Spencer Street
where ex-country people are haunted
by the fear of running into someone they might know
the anxiety of returning home
and the relief of getting out of the city
to footy matches where you can take your car up to the fence
buy a hot dog at half-time from a woman who used to beat you at tennis,
where old harvesting friends stop you in the street
to ask where are you working
then look away, distracted by the wind
as soon as you mention another job with computers.
Over the intercom
nasal accents of a conductor’s voice -
road connections to Illowa, Port Fairy, Portland.
Now that we are in the country
language locates us
like a birthmark on the face.
Like a babysitter the city releases you
into rye grass, dead eucalypts,
the people who made you leave.
The train picks up more passengers
with bad haircuts, big grins.
The conductor collects Colac tickets.
A ridge of maize
and I remember our yellow kitchen walls
mud at the gateway to the dairy,
cows bunched up after their milking
staring at paddocks darkening around them.
The train crosses the road our school bus travelled on.
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| 'These paddocks ...' |
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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These paddocks will always belong to the girl in the third seat.
and queuing up under the stars for the outside toilet
pulling out of a gravel road onto a quiet highway
doing a u-turn to pick up the kids from school
a police car hurtling out of a blind spot
if they’d hit you four inches closer from the front wheel ...
nodding off after two-weeks on late shift
waking to a white post bouncing off the passenger door.
Rolling dead cows onto the carry-all
hooking their legs between the bars
the head bouncing along the gravel.
Mum measuring the years by babies,
miscarriages, divorces, and suicides.
The funeral music of Beattie & Sons
stopping our talk during afternoon tea,
the announcer’s voice blandly reading
it is with regret we announce the death of ...
more tea is poured
who did she marry
who was her father
I think she was one of ...
The train pulls in
sliding past mothers in Shell suits
farmers wearing Western Herd Improvement caps.
I step off into fresh air
the fear that memory delivers me to.
The road home
is in the eye that admits you.
Behind me, the city waits like a perfect idea.
Fixed 29 September, 2003
Copyright Brendan Ryan, 2003
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