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| 'I walk toward a tree leaning on its elbow ...' |
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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I walk toward a tree leaning on its elbow
considering the choices in a small country town
who to talk to, when to leave
the rush to be pregnant.
A group of Aborigines saunters down the street
I cross looking away from stories
of king hits at the Hot Rods
overdoses in rented farmhouses.
I remember driving past Framlingham
my parents going quiet
and the mess around our house
being so familiar, comforting.
We chopped off chooks’ heads outside our back door
and sprayed mud against the weatherboards
chasing each other on Dragstars.
My mother took up gardening after we left home.
My brother hid in a wardrobe when visitors came.
We left our bedrooms when the tea was being made.
My parents quizzed visitors
on who was she before she was a Mugavin.
We avoided the dry biscuits
and hung on every word
when our names were mentioned
the strap kept us from being above our station.
Mum named us after saints
and sanctified us with a song on the radio.
The neighbours’ paddocks were farmed
around the kitchen table.
Family reputations increasing
the more land was owned.
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| Photo by Brendan Ryan, 2003. |
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Things nobody talked about
interested me the most-
the people you see in the back seats of cars at the footy
farmers letting their eyes linger
over the jeans of girls outside Mass.
Walking along the highway after school
kind men offered us lifts home.
One afternoon, we found our school bikes
bashed up at the end of the lane.
Like the wet mattresses airing out the front
I didn’t have time to be personal
with nine brothers and sisters
we preserved each other’s innocence
in mushrooming time, harvesting time
picking up stones time.
Work became a prayer we never finished,
a way of looking through fences
to a slab hut in the bush,
an earthen floor, stumps for chairs,
an Argus from 1943 on the table-
a mystery, like my father’s conversations
at the sale yards
where he laughed so much
his false teeth were loosened.
He knew everybody and I was the son
nervous, tense, tagging along.
Fixed 29 september 2003
Copyright Brendan Ryan, 2003
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