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(Dedicated to Peter Gahan)
Sitting on a porch,
looking at a Pademelon
Talking 'bout Ian, talking to Pete about life and things.
Sitting on a balcony
watch the Pademelon
Looks like a rabbit to me,
Peter said heâd had a lot of life
âtil now
Linda came in looking mean as a mouse,
and then cracked a smile as we looked so alike
as we spoke about things and the life and plans.
She gave me this leaf from a neighbor Ian,
Iâm going to give it to Ian, from Ian to Ian,
he made a Hobsonâs choice, as anyone would.
Learning about the mountain top
how the sea came and ate the crown of the hill,
long before the great red cedars left the valley floor.
High on the old volcano crest,
the last of the red cedars stand alone,
where the tree callers called aloud at the pretty-pretty flowers below,
Told me âbout the way the birds cry at night, itâs a war in the last light
crying aloud for-for the right to rest, and the right to close their eyes.
Told me bout the way they bent the corrugated iron in the rifle pit,
dug deep in a sandy hole, rifle cocked with their elbows high.
He cut off his hair, came down to his thighs,
in a piggy piggy tail fore going to war.
He went for his wife, but she never came back.
Christopher, St Mary, Emily and family, came to the party,
Winifred sang a song , or would have done, if anybodyâd asked her to.
She said, itâs not my party, Itâs Uncle Johnâs, it was yours to begin with,
Iâm watching on, I made a Hobsonâs choice, as anyone would.
Proud at the table, Uncle John, a one-eyed ghost,
shares his food, grown from the ground of a long-long man, from a long-long time ago.
I drove to the hills, and sat with Peter,
we talked about leaves, and our neighbors Ians,
sharing the undone veggie patch and plans for the great great plans,