“If I keep digging…”
Owen and his rituals.
Shoelaces may be undone
Hair unbrushed
And shirt buttons rarely level
But it was at breakfast
He would strike
Like a coiled adder
Owen the philosopher,
Amidst the clinking of spoons
The careful scraping of butter
On hot toast
The smell of marmalade
And the ruffle of a newspaper
The busyness of a mother
Sat readying himself to ask
Awkward Questions
With his errant shoes banging
Against the crossbeam
Of his chair, it started:
‘Da’ad?’ and the initial reply
A barely audible grunted ‘Yes?’
‘If I keep digging…’
‘Australia.’
A one-word-answer.
As if, like a suitcase,
It contained all the images,
Scents, music, art,
And accents of a far-off land
For six-year-old Owen,
A four-syllable answer
At seven a.m. the pips telling him
What he already knew,
Was a triumph. ‘Australia’
Wriggled down his ear canal
Into his imagination…
Father, discarded and transported
To ‘work’, whatever that meant,
And mother distracted with
Hair and dressing for coffee,
Or, when granny came,
With trainers, bibs, knee supports,
Bending and stretching
The time had come
For today’s importance -
He would not appreciate the
Free rein until old enough
To rebel against any benevolence
Or love’s demands -
Owen found his red boots
And, jacket thrown on,
Like his considered frown,
He sauntered old Labrador style
To the shed to retrieve
A spade, trowel,
And Dad’s oversized gloves.
Selecting his spot, he looked round…
…Mother, from the kitchen window
Returning his frown
Blew a kiss;
The starting pistol:
Drawing himself up
To full height and strength,
Boot on spade; it begun.
Visitors arrived. Someone
Left bread pudding
Parcelled in greaseproof paper
And a tall glass of lemonade
On the rocks.
Speaking of rocks, a
Semi-circle of soil and stone
Like a clockface
Told the time
Until his full bladder
Drove him from the task.
Noon: shadows and
Owen disappeared
Towards Ngunnawal County
The Visitor found him at four
Lying on the burnt orange
Soil of his quest
Looking up with closed eyes
At where the Sun had been.
Dreamtime achieving what
Spade and trowel had not
Or maybe they had…
…over half a milky tea
And buttered scones
Owen introduced his mother
To Kuparr with whom
He had found a worm
As long as his arm
Two breakfasts later
His face emerged
Finally washed and tanned
And, on the table, tea,
Beetroot and tumeric
Stained, lay a freshly carved
Boomerang. ‘Da’ad?’