Poetry

On Childhood

It was one of those days before I became who I am, happily moving through this house drafted from the set of a John Wayne film. When darkened suburban air horned with anguish was still yet to come. My mother brought memories from the Murray Mallee into these rooms and my father friends down on their luck. Memories of cockies rising into the clean air of their farms of their families warmed by her open welcome by fires and counter-meals— jaffles, pasties, sausage rolls and braised rabbit. Of my father still in his footy boots standing on the bar singing…

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