Graeme Hetherington: Two Poems

A West Coast of Tasmania Atmosphere

Hot summer Saturday in Zeehan

In nineteen forty eight as folk

Incorporated the week’s news

Of yet another folded mine,

A wicked wind niggling the town,

In Main Street emptying the pot‑

Holes only recently filled in,

Knocking off-centre, edging up

Blokes out of work nursing their heads,

Kids listless, whining, wanting more

Parental attention than was

Theirs naturally to bestow,

The women bored to snapping point,

Dads trying to give everyone,

Including their frayed selves a break,

Mine placing bets, having a quick

Furtive few over the road as

I clung too fiercely to his knee

And intermittently tugged at

His trousers to hurry him up,

Getting a smack under the ear.

Graeme Hetherington

The Two Bowlers

My father was a tricky left

Arm round the wicket, leg and off-

Break spinner for his local team.

The googly was his wrong-un, used

In time of need and seldom failed,

Well-flighted, floating, dipping to

Deceive, end threatening partnerships.

While I was right arm over, fast

Enough to open the attack,

But had no cunning hidden swing

To left or right to dismiss bats‑

Men caught behind, and had to straight

Up and down with sheer pace clean bowl,

Or, much less satisfying, win

An lbw appeal.

No wonder we never got on.

Graeme Hetherington