Rum Jungle

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