Jack Mitchell: ‘all those beginnings’

all those beginnings

I went to such damn trouble with my castles,
a moat, defences—bulwarks—twigs I found
for flags, and the tide flagged your hopes instead,
your skin burned in the sun like apricot

the wind turns northerly late morning
so we pack up the umbididdilies
and traipse on back to the holiday haunts,
our elders share drinks and nibblies over stuff
and tales they told, golf or fishing, otherwise,
and I read MacLean or Fleming or Wouk
or maybe that one the Aunt had taken
from her shelf, the long one with bits you just had
to flip back to, in wonder and excitement

beyond the build, climax, putting down
in all those nascent thrills, spills and drills …
walking to the skating rink south of Kirra
with Judy two years older holding hands
first time, gob-smacked, my east of eden,
beginning of all my ending

Jack Mitchell