We stared at the Gamba Grass,
A wall of imported infestation,
And dreamed what this place could be
With time and hard work -
A locus of loss
Transformed into gain.
Our daughter revels in the space,
Hardly knowing which stick to whack
Or which anthill to dismantle
With her enthusiasm.
We pat ourselves on the back
For getting her outdoors,
Away from smartphones, iPads and TV,
Jumping on her trampoline
In the shade of an African Mahogany
Where the red dirt cools
And shifts to grey.
There were warnings:
First, a Kingfisher skewered
On the barbed wire fence,
Still breathing, beak moving,
Opening and closing slowly
Like a rusty hinge;
Then the apocryphal tale
Of how this place derived its name -
Bullock train drivers
Stranded on their northward trek,
Wet season trapping them
In cages of Pandanus,
They consumed their entire consignment of
rum.
I imagine them half insane from drink,
Humidity and insects, lying prone
Inside sodden canvas tents
Turned crimson by sunset.
In the evenings
A breeze picks up drying sweat,
Flocks of parrots flit busily
Seeking secure perches,
Fruit bats flap languidly,
Eucalypts curve anthropomorphic,
Tinged pink by a reddening sky
As we sip G 'n' Ts on the deck,
Contemplating dinner,
Hearing no car horns
Or telephone rings.
Night drops like a wet tarp
Spangled with shards of glass.
This place cares not for us.
Tomorrow the wallabies might visit,
Keeping low in the morning mist,
Silent and watchful as they graze.
© shaun patrick green 2019
