Stacking Wood
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, glass 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.
poem by Diane Hine
Added by Poetry Lover
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