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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