I sit amongst
people I know
people who have
the same blood
and the same
historic milestones

and yet we are so different

i feel the black sheep coat
knitting itself about me once more
high turtle neck choking me
and wool coarse, causing my soul
to itch and raise hives...

as i sit  with family
but excluded by feelings
both mine and their
I must be true
and cry mea culpa... too

when  I was younger
I ran to the end of my tether
and was held to the family tree
by mere threads  
of silken spider web loyalty

then as I aged  
I reeled myself
back to the shore
of shared mythology

only to find my time
of freedom at the
end of the line
gave me a permanent
feeling of never having
been there...

and now as they visit
the mother of us all
we sit in polite conversation
about the progeny of us
and I think that
our particular dysfunction
is more of an exclusion
of the intricate nature
of bonding and care...

we are tied loosely
this bundle of family sticks
and I fear once
the bind that ties
the love of our mother
most dear
is torn from us
even now
she is threadbare
and once that is broken

our nature of exclusion
will scatter us to the wind
.....a family tree laid bare

i remember
that day, that moment
that changed
my everything

it was ordinary
in every aspect

bar one

your
incandescent
smile

beaming
like a lighthouse
showing me

the way home
to my safe harbour

I remember, that
with a gratitude
that guides my life

and causes me to smile

in a secret
and
self satisfied way...

They sit
on the riverbank
on rickety stool
or upturned buckets
elbows resting on knees
hand on rod or simple reel

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
and cogitate

hats on heads
with scrapes and muck and holes
old sandshoes
that have long forgotten
the words white and tennis
shorts or trousers
that sit comfortbably on the hips
and old threadbare shirts

they sit, they stare
into the bright river wake
they take breathes of air
they of the ambience intake

about them is a calm
a stillness, a balm
and tho flys hover
and create bother
there is grace
as they swat
and bat them off
their face

even when they hook
a catch, there is a rhythm
to the fight, of reel and splash
as the duel, to bring the hunted
to heel, be it snagged boot
or that night's meal

they sit,  they stand
rod and reel in hand
and thake a punt
on the aquarian hunt

with net and esky
and can of bait
they sit, they wait
and the world
revolves slowly
to them, there is
something sacred
something holy
about the time spent
on the riverbank

catching fish
catching up to oneself
time given to repent
relinquish, replenish
to reinvent, a soul

they sit, they wait
they contemplate
they consecrate

simple things to holy


these old men who fish
on the riverbanks

an ol man river
watches and  gently
smiles

white sand
flecked with
blackend seaweed

occasionally
a smooth tumbled pebble

the smell of salt
and iodine

water, whitecapped
as far as the horizon
and beyond

and heat clear crisp heat
drawing and drying sweat
on bodies bronzing

seagulls squabbling
over chips thrown
to a zephyr breeze

and the sound of sea
making love to sand
sealife, in australia

my mind returns
more often now

to those simpler days

when to seek a thrill
was to ride a bike
no handed down a steep hill

where to while away hours
you lay on your back
and counted clouds

friendships were made and sealed
by the fine art of daisy chain production

when others worried about important things
and we spent our dollars on lollies and chips

the time when all wars were fought in one day
then forgotten and forsaken for the next day's adventure

when you went to bed pleasantly tired
and slept with no sword hanging
over your head....

my mind returns
with a fondness
for those carefree days
those moments caught
in the amber of my memory

and sighs, longingly
before coming back
to the here and now
of adulthood.

my mother throws
the wet headed mop at him,
expecting him, nimble and atheletic
to jump over it
but it hits his calf
and ankle with
a sickening crack
and he falls
like tree felled in a storm
as he hits the too long green grass
there is a wet thud, thud.

then a momentary silence
striking in it's completeness
so profound, it is almost zen like

broken by the high pitched wail
as the pain receptors in my brothers brain
kick in to high gear,he writhes on the ground
my mother hovering over him
repeating this mantra
"you were supposed to jump!
you, were supposed to jump"

he was foueteen, the local sport star
arrogant as only teenagers can be.

she would have been middle to late forties
a single parent having worked a double shift

I cannot remember his infraction,
there were;  oh, so many
but still 38 years on
I can feel the silence
so absolute....
and hear the mantra....

you were supposed to jump
                                    you were supposed to jump