for chris
Yellow-brown stain across white
ceiling; grandpa in leather chair
would raise his
pipe to say g’day
we run out to play cricket
at the front. Like tradition
he’d follow and sit, second step
elbows as wide as knees
tap out each change
of bowler, pack fresh leaves and light up
at the crack of a good shot.
Could he see
a future test captain
through those glasses; silent
as the glass
of a commentary box.
Mum gave me a box recently. It contained all of my schooling stuff from kindergarten and up. It’s a large box. Two large boxes actually. In it I found probably the first haiku I ever wrote. Here it is after years in an attic space, published for the first time:
.
hawks on a kangaroo
pick the last bites of their meal
fly back to their nest
.
I wasn’t expecting genius and nor should you. I don’t remember the moment. It’s clearly Australian and I’m pretty proud of little Andrew having a go.
It does provide a good opportunity for a response ku though. To primary school teachers everywhere:
.
one two three four five
one two three four five six sev
3 five 12… eight
.
Look, how the leaf
swirls
in this pool
beside the stream.
There’s a black suburu parked on the left hand verge
of the highway. Two of them
walk from the galvanised pole –
taped orange flowers.
He watches her,
too far apart for hands
her face searches
the ground
picks up something
in the grass.
