Bush Childhood

Where platypus nudge billabongs to ripples,

ferns coil from creekbanks wild and wet with mud,

we tumble, stumble, pant, and laugh and hurtle.

We limp home tired, knees scabbed red with blood.

We climb, bark-clasping, calling, “Higher! Higher!”

We whirl like whisked wildflowers of the gums.

We gallop, flecked with leather-scented lather.

We pluck at pears and suck sweet-hearted plums.

Childhood sunshine, long in limbs and laughter,

bronze-burns the outside hours on our thighs,

turns tender springtime buds to sprouting blooms,

turns evening to a pastel floss of sighs.

In golden years much shorter than we know,

bright summer kids to autumn adults grow.