Hi Bill thanks lovely great sprawl of images -maybe 'Bobs' in 5 lines
needs a little edit??
Max also looking back this morning cheers P
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Bill Wootton
Sent: 10 December 2013 20:40
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Bendigo
Bendigo
Brother Dan and I played the car game
in the front yard at Lucan Street: we'd run along the top
of the four-foot high two-tone red brick front fence, stopping
when we reached a raised brick pillar. The two taller ones at either end,
marking neigbours' boundaries and the two highest, sentinels of the front
gate,
were agreed safety zones. You had to be standing on one of these four and
stock still,
when a car drew parallel with you. If caught on a section between the
pillars, even on either
of the two intermediary low pillars, you lost. Otherwise it was a game of
constant motion. Keeping the Bendigo blues at bay. Estimating approaching
car speeds, risky running, brinkmanship in the afternoo
n.
Lucan Street, down from the Bendigo Base Hospital,
our Grandparents' place, Dad's parents. Elm tree lined.
Two cars, three at a pinch, nosed to the gutter between trunks.
Raked up fallen elm leaves ignited right there on the road
at the base of trees. Smoke winding up bark.
Trimmed roses either side of the curling concrete path
to the fly-screened front porch where milk, bread
and later, meals-on-wheels were door-delivered.
Enter through one half of the glazed double front door,
proceed across carpeted hallway towards the kitchen door,
see the carved cuckoo clock on the wall. A box of carpet bowls,
Henselite, on a mahogany hallstand. Turn right, bathroom
of scalds ahead, now left, through spare bedroom to sleep-out.
Place of wooden wonders. Trains, skittles, Bobs game.
Like billiards for midgets. Set up Bobs in dining room.
First get brown car rug from Grandma. Spread it out,
pattern-side down on the dining table. Place Bobs set at far end
of table. Unfold the Bobs wings. Using wooden cue as ruler,
mark with white chalk the shooting line. Lean over,
take cue-aim at Tom Bowler-sized wooden black ball.
Propel it at the kitty, a golden ball, hoping to ping it
into a high scoring arched hole, preferably
with a loud thwack on the backboard.
Outside, Nicky, black and white border collie in her large square dog
enclosure.
Reach over the top and tickle-pat the top of her head and she'll almost hum
with patient enjoyment. Remove your hand eventually to Nicky's
consternation.
Walk on cracked concrete by Grandma's fernery, past the sandpit, past the
tomato patch,
the length of the full-sized cricket pitch where Uncle Charlie got
head-bopped
when he played a leave, forgetting the only keeper was a fast-rebounding
concrete wall.
An axe-softened chopping block in front of the woodshed in the far corner.
Turn back - mind the woodchips - now pumpkins on your left, cross
the grassy driveway to the chookshed. Raise first one, then the other,
hinged wooden flap, checking for a warm egg in straw.
With or without egg, continue across verge, under apricot tree. Listen.
Maybe there will be
glasses chinking next door over the high creeper-saturated concrete fence.
The Michelsons.
Buick drivers. Party people. Climb, if you feel like it, the apricot tree,
grab a quick look over the top. There's the door. The overgrown outhouse
entrance, Grandpa once told you,
to the wartime tunnel leading under their house and all the way under this
house
to a cellar in the old malthouse on the other side.
Bendigo, City with Go, slogan on the new cardboard milk cartons.
Huh, no go, said Dan, no CITY, said me. But it was a place.
bw
11.12.13
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