As He Lies Dying
In another hemisphere,
across half a continent
and an ocean, my grandfather
lies dying. I am unable
to hold his hand,
kiss his forehead,
share a longneck
of Carlton Draught,
say Remember
when your bull
almost gored me
at Timboon?
I should have
listened to you
and stayed on the
trailer.
My daughter loves
the painting
of the gallah you
gave her
last time we
visited, before
we had to put you
in the home.
The Jerilderie
Letter
really is pure
Irish bush poetry.
I often think
about the taste
of the molasses
you gave
me from the
bucket
in the dairy
after milking.
You never told me
your
favourite Slim
Dusty song.
I never cared
that I never
caught any fish
when you took
me fishing at
Logan’s beach.
I just wanted to
be with you,
watch you cast
out beyond
the breaking
waves, reel
in whiting after
whiting
as if they were
waiting
for you to bring
them home.
I always admired
the way
you broke the
necks
of the kittens we
found
in the hessian
sack
beside the
rubbish bin
in the beach car
park.
You were stoic in
your mercy,
quick and
pragmatic, silent,
but I saw the
tear before
you erased it
with the back
of your
sun-damaged hand.
This is a wonderful tribute, Nat. An amazing and startling poem.
ReplyDeleteMany thanks, Myron.
ReplyDeleteThat is such a beautiful tribute. May those shared memories last forever.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Rob!
DeleteA beautiful poem Nat.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mark! And that reminds me - I read Concrete Flamingos a little while back and thoroughly enjoyed it. "Crossing the mountains" is my favorite poem in the book.
DeleteA beautiful poem Nat.
ReplyDeleteSo very beautiful Nat, and I know that country and I remember molasses in the bucket
ReplyDeleteThanks, James. I must have been five or six at the time, but I'll never forget the taste and the setting.
DeleteA touching tribute of beautiful love and memory.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Maxime.
Delete