two, three, four

Possums have eaten the juiced orangesthe scoured insides like white bra cupsdecorating the wood and compost pilesan art installation atop the teeming dark.Our jack donkey foal’s coat fluffs upin this dawn breeze, the light stormysnow on the mountains’ cold shoulders.snow on the mountains’ cold shoulders.

I toss hay, peg washing, prop the line.Four boys at home, socks’n’jocks citythe only colour in the ruins of our gardenbut for wale, camellias, those orange husks.One son jets away soon, and me?Text messages render me obsolete.The future is another country, too.The future is another country, too.

I watch an Australian film I tapedabout a teenaged girl who leaves homerunning into trouble in her naivety.Her girl-woman awkwardness touches mea reminder of my own bruised past.By the time she reunites with her motherour washing is dry, sun poking through. our washing is dry, sun poking through.

Ian C. Smith

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