Delta40
10-26-2011, 10:39 AM
I remember when we disembarked
at the Victoria Quay Passenger Terminal,
tied by the bow of enduring affection
and a sense of familial security.
As the rain pelted down
on the leaky tin roof, the gum trees swayed,
and we sought the comfort of a mother
crocheted out of recycled wool.
She toiled day and night,
digging up the farmless earth
while we held onto the soft warmth
like rhesus monkeys in a lab.
Nobody wanted to let go till she returned.
At night, she scrubbed, washed and swore,
Let us be grateful to the Lord.
She disappeared at dawn before we woke.
So how did this abandonment persist
across a life span?
Imaginary smells from the wood stove,
stories told round a crackling fire.
Laughter embedded between the sheets
of an immigrant clan filled with hope.
Fantasies with sobbing ambivalence.
Perhaps history was our destiny after all
and childish dreams of idealisation shielded us
from the starving reality
of unfertilized soil and bore water.
My brother asked if love was the only determinant
but I told him straight,
We don't travel down just one avenue.
The precious gift of parental support
will never be the only route.
So I clanged the pots for them at sundown,
and my siblings rushed forth,
praying God had delivered our reward
for an impoverished existence on the landscape.
Our hopes slumped as did our shoulders,
and the little ones desperately clung to me,
Tell us about roast dinners again!
I let the snakes and bobtails slither
into her tatty old blanket,
knowing it never really had a useful purpose.
at the Victoria Quay Passenger Terminal,
tied by the bow of enduring affection
and a sense of familial security.
As the rain pelted down
on the leaky tin roof, the gum trees swayed,
and we sought the comfort of a mother
crocheted out of recycled wool.
She toiled day and night,
digging up the farmless earth
while we held onto the soft warmth
like rhesus monkeys in a lab.
Nobody wanted to let go till she returned.
At night, she scrubbed, washed and swore,
Let us be grateful to the Lord.
She disappeared at dawn before we woke.
So how did this abandonment persist
across a life span?
Imaginary smells from the wood stove,
stories told round a crackling fire.
Laughter embedded between the sheets
of an immigrant clan filled with hope.
Fantasies with sobbing ambivalence.
Perhaps history was our destiny after all
and childish dreams of idealisation shielded us
from the starving reality
of unfertilized soil and bore water.
My brother asked if love was the only determinant
but I told him straight,
We don't travel down just one avenue.
The precious gift of parental support
will never be the only route.
So I clanged the pots for them at sundown,
and my siblings rushed forth,
praying God had delivered our reward
for an impoverished existence on the landscape.
Our hopes slumped as did our shoulders,
and the little ones desperately clung to me,
Tell us about roast dinners again!
I let the snakes and bobtails slither
into her tatty old blanket,
knowing it never really had a useful purpose.