Pumice
slapping round the welterweight
of holidays
sliding on the
leftover hams abounding conversations
flowing like the froth
on Mt Vesuvius
we used to go down
Cronulla Beach
to pick up pumice Dad would say that came
all the way from
Hawaii from a volcano
there is no
second-guessing sudden longing
be it sliced beetroot
from the tin or candied yam
the old coast road where the silver
slats of sun-baked wood
held in the sheep
before their long trips to the Gulf
reeking hard of urine
even at that fair distance
we
soldiers of
memory screaming aloud
bring the
vertigo of new year
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