Memories of a Childhood

This old house stands tall in treetops grand,
with its ankles soaked in Queensland sand.
When rains do fall, as heavy they sheet,
the shutters rattle flung from their feet.

Fans push the air like helicopters
landing in every room as night leers,
and crickets, cicadas and geckos
wiggling like worms on walls and windows.

I hang out the washing in dim light
of the evening breeze with touch at night,
and take out the bins before the toads
jump and play dare devils on the roads.

We hear them popping as cars race by
and can only squirm as each toad dies.
The red backs then take turns to invade
our clothing, bikes, toilets and sunshade.

The memories of those mozzies loud,
like a terrifying, noisy cloud
that sting relentlessly all summer –
oh, how we yearn for cooler winter.

On really hot days the hose comes out,
a welcome treat from the heat, no doubt,
but alas our feet, pricked viciously
from dozens of tiny grass bindi.

But we eat what our garden can grow
including roos and foxes you know,
that keep the wolf from the door for sure,
even if their taste is like manure.

I like the black cockatoos who watch
with a keenness in their headdresses –
a flaming orange sight to witness;
their fierceness like strutting, winged warriors.