A flat country voice And dull red hair; someone Should have called him Bluey In that river town ten miles from Loxton. He wakes early In the white-lit ward Watches in silence the baby's Comfortable feeding. We exchange Grins over burping. Asleep with his hopeless nose And ears, he is a granite knight Chiseled on a bed of stone, Gaunt and hopelessly misled. Does he dream Of the mother and brothers Waiting for a house, Of the father, somewhere, cherry-picking In Victoria with the eldest boy. Fremantle Arts Review 1986 |
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