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 Old Shep or Danny Boy
or about the courtship of white leghorns
as kegs were opened for the entire district.
Memories now filling these suburban rooms.

And because it was raining that day
I was not allowed to play outside.
Yet the happiness of those farmers
filled my afternoon with joy.