Garden, Summer 1970

oh to revisit the church of my faith; dunk my feet in warm suds, swipe at the cool grass
gulp down the sweet, dilute juice. Amanda, Jane, Dolly, Ted, lined up to dry; naked

legs splayed in a spiritless vinyl salute to the sun. If I prayed it was to stay the execution
of those days, to ward off the blow of September and the return to school.

On long evenings, when the others had gone for hot baths, I laid under the shade
of the tepee and counted on my fingers, the painted feathers hidden in the canvas folds.

Soft, devout, I reassured my silent, newly fragrant friends,of my dedication, my mother’s love
and chewing on green acid gum, I realigned them, tucking them tight into blue blanket beds.

An After School Swim

At the water’s edge I lay in the easy company of the dragonfly
somnolent; beguiled by the chirrup of the crickets in the long grass
I watch, wait for the gentle kiss of the carp to break the surface still.

Long shadows are cast by the sunlight that filters through the trees
glorious as it meets late summers eve
but then with whoops and shouts, stirring the sediment to brew

a muddy ale; a sudden commotion. Marauders! Invaders! Jeers and catcalls ring out
as becalmed becomes a boiling sea of flailing arms
of jumps in and boisterous splashing’s and ducking’s of the head.

Pudgy toes glide in the slime, and sticky mud is drawn into the crevices
in the skin as frogs bark alarm calls and ducks depart the water in a flap
and boys spout, spray in splendid sparring ‘I can spit furthest’ shows.

Laughing they pummel the losers, hold aloft the champions, their shoulders, faces
freckling in the glare. They dive, seeking cities lost to the river bed, surface
empty handed, flecked with scum.

In a while the water cools and their skin is pricked and mottled blue
and the breeze, lit like a still green stick, sings soft through the leaves above
setting them adrift on the water, meandering unhurried to the grassy banks.

Rousing cries fall to idle talk, teeth chatter and sweaters are dragged over wet, wild hair
as short trousers are staggered into and wrinkled, cold-white feet squelch into plimsolls
before the boys, tired, empty-bellied make for home.

In moments they are gone; swallowed by the trees and only echoes
and a trail blazed by feet and sharp sticks trampling the meadow grass
remain. Vanquished, doleful I return to my idling; wait for the kiss of the carp.

Picnic, Queens Wood Summer ’73

my sister was on him like a cat at a squab and as she sprang
I watched the flesh of her thigh tauten beneath her skirt.

In a second there she was up on the high beam
a panther in black; her hands clammy, chalked

stinky plimsolls on her bony feet. He lay there shocked
as she sat astride him; beat his face with her fists

took his hair between her fingers and yanked.
When he’d shaken her off she turned a straight back

to us all and picked up her book -a crease cleaving
the page. I chewed until the sandwich was a gobbet

and my brother, puce, had a look of the bee-stung
glugging the last of the lemonade for spite.

On the walk home my sister left us trailing, disquieted
but it was not the length of her stride that kept us apart.