Ball Doyen(ne) 

Out came the voile, the fabulous organza. So elegantly
does this debutante’s gown whirl, the night commissioned by
forefathers of the ball; Masons in tuxedos & secret smiles.
A young man takes her hand, the silver globe turns overhead.
She is the swan dying in the waltz. His black coattails ruffle in the
quick-step. The path of roses, the cultured pearls on each motif
swing full circle, jubilant in the light. The couple rests on heels
when the speeches are made, but the dress continues to turn,
brash white thing, Doyenne of the Ball, full rope petticoat
flouncing every seam. The tango tilts gardenias in her hair.
The ball gown, painstakingly made-by-hand, swishes down
the stairs, leaving restive swans drinking at the door.
The couple arranges their first scene of fidelity, gooseflesh
shimmering as lotus on a lake. Somehow they are lit up from the
ball, unbound, heads craned for the taste of the glide home.

in chilly waters
under a moonlit bower –
two star-puckered swans

No. 9 Ridge Street

There is a house where the green paint hides beneath cream particle-
boards, and the rusty gates have disappeared into the blue hues of
hydrangeas. The front fibro walls are stacked with sliding windows, still
waiting for sibling calls, their intentions made clear – red faces thirsting for
Manning’s Creaming Soda. It sits in an old horizon, a familiar one that I
touched and scraped with a doweling stick to hear the iambic-rise and fall
on timber boards. A truck swings by naming Iced Vo-Vo’s in the tin. A sugar
spill is a younger brother damping his forefinger like the sign of the Trinity
cross. A dog out walking is Princey in the sun until mum feathered him with
her shade on the way to the grocer’s. He acquiesced at the gate, his tongue
sending spittle to the wind, clamoring ants to their nest. Then mum’s tea-
cosy lips whistled at the corner, at the top of the street, as the easterly
processed his name and our Collie ran madly coaxing a myth that a three-
legged dog can’t half speed, especially if there’s a bone waiting under
awning breeze.

It’s only a dream now. A remaining table set for Sunday roasts, the patterns
mother cut from crimpelene caped in a corner at the end of a meal. We
wore cheap clothes and didn’t call anyone Jones. The timber-yard milled in
the street, sifting wood dust at our door, but the house always responded
with a lofty broom, straw falling long and short, as if to our lips, twiddling
threadthin shadows like berserk sundials.

I was always happy then; beaches two streets away, fishing jetty, a fifty-
yard swim. That’s how the house leaves me, currawongs waking the street,
dog in a lazarous doze, half-running in his mind, one eye walled to the sun,
the other on the diminishing heels of mum. 

Vincenzo's Garden
 
In the morning Vincenzo visits his garden. With the sun barely
overhead, he carts bottles in a big-wheeled wagon, rake bumping
along. Vincenzo leads a simple life, knows homegrown, the difference
between taste and retail. Everything is possible in his backyard
bungalow: music, wine, fermentation, a pizza plied with squares of
mozzarella cheese. He smiles above his tracksuit, beckons us as
neighbours with a hand-waving accent. This is his litany, as caring as
the hessian bags of broccoli he lopes skyward, as generous as the
soccer tickets he sells. Vincenzo is a well-travelled man from Calabria
Regionali. He knows the family is vanishing, a sort of melancholy death
brings. But Vincenzo preserves his soul in the green planting of dill and
pepper, hot chilli for spring, olives to thin the blood. Still a provincial
man he nurtures pumpkin, capsicum, beans, and pickled cabbage for
the winter. Occasionally, he pulls another almond from his pocket, walks
ten paces back and forth between watercourse and storage, tunes an
Italian mind to moisture levels in the compost. In his yard, large
tomatoes are the gifts of Australia, cabbages are perfect soccer balls.
When he's not rotating relish on the pizza, he raises three glasses of
wine, an octave above "O Sole Mio". 

under jasmine sky –
tureen of pumpkin soup, topped
with parsley and cream