ANZAC Day, Bathurst 2009

We join the small crowdand stand awkwardly

kicking dried leaves

while the kids fidget in the gutter,

listening to the skirl of the approaching pipes.

Then they come,
withered like old leaves and as grey as the sky -
a little platoon of tweed coats,
wending its way up the street.

Some are in wheelchairs and cars,
waving tired arms to the watching crowd,

others still marching,

eyes straight, head up.

There was a time
these men once young
heard applause like thunder
and grateful cheers
as they marched these same streets.

Our smattering of claps
is hesitant and half hearted.
I look down,
half-ashamed to add my own
to this paltry offering.

Then I turn and see a young woman

weeping as they go past,

and another sitting on the steps

reading stories of the ANZACs

to her daughter.

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Roses should be chosen for smell

(for Dave, on our 10th wedding anniversary)

Roses should be chosen for smell:

not the sugar-pink smell of generic romance;

not the faint stale smell of petrol,
still lingering on the petals from the servo
where they were bought as an afterthought
on the way home;

not the whiff of guilt
seeping through their weak attempts
to propitiate...

No: roses should smell of
whispered conversations in the dark,
long after the lights have been turned out;

walks to and fro between home and the train station,
framing the day's labours;

newsprint and coffee on a Saturday morning;

a flickering screen
watched with knotted fingers,
waiting for a glimpse of a heartbeat;

summer nights spent
desperately passing a screaming newborn
back and forth, back and forth
in time with the tennis on the TV.

Roses should smell of a
first date
first kiss
first flat
first loss

and every second and third and fourth,
from then till now,
encoded in the scent of each petal.

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Bathurst

My sister,
we were always
so different
from each other -
'Chalk and cheese'
mum would say.

But we share a childhood,
our shaping years,
spent side by side in the back seat,
on the first stages of the journey.

And now you're leaving.
God has flung you somewhere new.
Soon the last box will be sealed,
the truck doors will slam shut,
and you'll drive back
to where it all began -

Back to that cold, beautiful town,
where Autumn covers the parks
with a carpet of orange
and the taps freeze in winter;
back to where God first drew our family to him,
one by one,
slowly chipping away at mum,
melting dad's resistance in one morning.

And now you're driving back
with your own little family,
for God to use you,
in the chipping and melting work
that he has planned for many hearts.

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The local pool

The clonking turnstiles twist,
And we file through,
my sister, dad and me,
our rubber thongs* clapping
the grey concrete.

I smell the first hint of chlorine,
hear the shrieks of the kids
and my thongs clap
a little faster
as we dance our way
through an obstacle course
of towels and beach bags.

The water is teeming with kids
bobbing like bath toys
amongst the churning detritus
of dead grass and used band-aids.

We slip in between them,
and feel the relief
of coolness enveloping us
against the hot, hot day.

A short quarter-century later,
with kids of my own in hand,
the pool-smell brings it all back,
and the memories wash over me
in waves of chlorinated, cool nostalgia
as I clonk my way back through the turnstiles.

* For my American readers, I should clarify that 'thongs' in Australia are footwear, not underwear!

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Happy Birthday Elsie

Elsie, you were our Christmas baby,
a gift from God, delightfully unexpected.

Eleven days late
You waited till Christmas was come and gone,
Your birthday overshadowed by His.

But once you were with us
You charmed your way into the centre of our hearts,
Impishly demanding our attention,
With your own brand of irresistible grace.

May it always be that way for you -
Outshone by no one
But gloriously overshadowed
by Christ.

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On a bench one Sunday

You sit on a bench,
head forward, brow furrowed
Listening to angry words,
that have made me
want to scuttle away
like a little ant.

But you, my darling,
are brave and kind.
So you wait with a firm presence,
listening,
to scrambled sentences
from a troubled mind.

I watch you,
and my heart sees
one "whom having not seen, I love",
And I love you even more.

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Sparkly girl

You run inside with shining eyes
petals in your hands,
thrusting them towards me
like precious jewels,
with words of kindness
lightening my tired heart.

My sparkly, sparkly girl
If God wills it,
you'll grow and change-
Your chubby cheeks will thin,
you'll feel the grate of circumstance.

But don't let your eyes fade.
Shine your smile
like a Spring full of petals.
And let your kind words
soften wrinkled faces
forever.

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