Our Mum was chopping wood, a daunting pile.
She said, 'This must be stacked before you go'.
Affecting not to hear with practiced guile,
we pedalled off on bikes a mile or so-
to where the river mouth lay satin sleek.
Our wheels etched loops and spirals in the sand,
the palimpsest displayed our fine technique,
a tour de force of abstract art unplanned.
Back home, we slipped our bikes behind the shed
and Mum was busy gutting clean a chook.
We darted in and out to snatch a snack,
pretending not to see her pointed look.
Across the field, the web-laced stockyard fence
bequeathed its bones as splinters in our hands.
Our realms were spiked with riveting suspense
and bordered prickle-riddled no man's lands.
The outside dunny's contents had accrued,
so Mum was hard at work with garden spade.
We tip-toed to the kitchen after food-
polony, chutney sandwiches quick made.
The steep walled gully hid a cluttered spring
of rusted metal, gla** and fretted things,
enclosed by upswept eucalyptus wings.
We rained rocks down and made our valley sing.
When dusk fell, nature's warmth withdrew aloof.
My older sister frowned- I understood.
The yellow window glowed a soft reproof.
Before we went inside, we stacked the wood.