Stephen Gilfedder: ‘An Integration Manual’

An Integration Manual

The immigrant Irishman had left it all behind
Or attempted to—Religion, laboriously-
Extracted accent, making brave efforts to adapt
To the drowsy, suspicious Australia of the Fifties.
From scratch the self-made handyman built
The pine offcut garage in the neat suburban street
Looking like a log cabin beside the freshly-painted
Weatherboard in the Navy-surplus paint.
This gloomy unlit space smelling of retsina held
The Tools of Trade splayed and crucified on nails,
Bark chips squirming in torment beneath your feet.
This Showroom for the Ages housed a succession
Of British automotive failures—the Ford Prefect
That threatened to topple at any given corner
Even at a modest speed and wrestled on full lock.
The Singer Gazelle which made an Everest

Of every hillock, but contained a prized collection
Of parts swaddled in green baize in the cantilevered boot.
(You needed those). The near-to-final straw,
Although its snout poked out through the sagging
Swing doors, which lifted and scraped to open,
Was the fully imported Humber Super Snipe
Constantly in the auto shop for parts we couldn’t get
From Dear Old Blighty. From Imperial maroon it faded
To pale pink in the Antipodean sun. Offloading that
To the Methodist neighbour the two-tone Humber Hawk
Became a pride and joy—prone to oil leaks,
A column shift inclined to grate, shockers always
Wearing down despite having been just replaced.
Eventually he saw the light, was naturalized
And in retirement gifted to himself in powder blue
The Charger with the huge donk and racing stripes.

Stephen Gilfedder