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