Teenagers
In Camberwell, Melbourne
on a sultry autumn Saturday evening
we tethered our dog to a pavement chair
and sat eating ice cream, eavesdropping
on the teenage girls giggling about vodkas
and who threw up on the kitchen floor.
A wizened man paused to pet our dog –
‘man’s best friend’ – he had to tell us
(in an accent I could scarcely follow):
best animal he ever knew - a horse - saved his life.
He was sixteen, ploughing a field
in 1944 in Germany.
American bombers then were flying over
to bomb Munich. Spitfires would fly low
to shoot up anything that moved.
Before they came, this time, his horse
sensed something, bolted, dragging him into...
the forest. You know, like the bush.
If the horse hadn’t dragged him there,
Spitfire bullets would have killed them both.
Large hand gestures spoke better than his English –
the Spitfires flew like THIS everywhere.
All this long minute his eye held
my wife’s eye intensely. God bless you,
he said fervently, petted our dog again,
moved on down the street. The teenagers
finished their ice creams
and their vodka conversation.
I'd wanted my wife to say her father
was also in Germany then, a teenager,
in a camp. (I often take a quick glance
at the camp tattoo on his left arm.)
He too would be watching out for planes.
Well, surviving they found their way
to Melbourne, long life, the good life,
the casual warm street of ice cream,
girls with bare legs, high heels,
ankle tattoos, a dog with no reason to bolt.
Max Richards
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