by HAZEL HALL
i stand on the back tray of the old army truck
grasping the rail with my sisters and cousins singing
Uncle has wound his window up — cans are roped beside me
the tray is earth, and earth is farm and farm is family
the track is rougher than the farm dog’s tongue
eucalypt threads through the tang of dung and dust
our song is in rhythm with the truck — its engine is my life-pulse
happiness jolts up and down into each ridge and gutter
high on the hill the old house stands, cypresses burst with birds
a hand of smoke at the chimney top waves come in, come in
gravel flies up, smears my face and stings my skin
clouds race faster than Auntie’s tick-tock clock
the farm dog bounds behind, ears flat to his head, tail feathered
and quickly becomes a dot in the distance
joy overflows in the milk of this moment, soon the dairy man
will share a few words while exchanging full for empty
cans will rattle back to the shed, the dog will rush up for a pat
and we’ll all have breakfast together