Powder of Light

Hunched in the farm ute
tarpaulin against wind
the moon chasing treetops
as it yellows into night
us, going to the pictures
by the State forest way
my mate’s brother driving

we are at the age
that has since slipped
down toward toddlers
for whom adults and dreams
mostly have no names yet.
What wagged on screen then
made from powder of light

were people in music
who did and said dressy
stuff in English or American
kissed slow with faces crossed
flicked small-to-big
in an instant, then
were back in Australia

we believed it was Australia—
then our driver who never
attended films would surface
from courting and collect us
there way before TV.
And people, some holding
phones like face cards, still ask

good movie? Who was in it?
I smile and say Actors
but rarely now add
hired out of the air.