by JO McINERNEY
Walking these streets
hunting the past. Not seeking
mum’s lipsticked smile or dad’s
stiff creased fedora. Instead looking for
the waving acres, wide paddocks where
skinks flickered and giant goannas
forced a path. The sunny fields
where children from Commission
houses played all day among
wild grasses whose prickly
whisper deepened
as dusk fell.