My father’s teaching house was a wonderful, leaning thing,
thick with toxic fumes and creativity.
My school next door, however, an imposing beast.
A glutton for unhappy children and alcoholic ladies, with red front teeth and spanking on their minds…
After school dust followed me everywhere, sticking like an Australian summer.
My mind already in Dad’s art-house, anticipation mixing mud and colours!
Each day on my journey, I climbed the Moreton Bay Fig, to a birdhouse nestled in the wisest crook, to check inside for feathers.
I eagerly awaited a nest, a speckled egg or two, but always empty….still my imagination urged me on, a confident soldier!
This day I faced the tree in all it’s rough splendour and scuttled up, little skirt flying.
My leafy view was a spyhole and Dad an ant under my shiny brown gaze; my love rained silver on that world.
With reverent expectation, I lifted the lid of the bird-house, what to see?
A gleaming red thing, a glorious apple!
Bigger than the eggs I had imagined, with their wild gold shells, I needed two hands to carry this treasure!
So with an apple shaped package in my green school knickers,
I made my way to earth with a bite of magic that unveiled distinct possibilities.
The truth, I was Eve’s descendant, gifted forever with the return of sweet opportunity.
How I rejoiced in my blood globe token,
of beautiful sin,
of pagan thrill
of paternal adoration
of connection to my god heart.
I was sure my father had put it there given as he was
to things that made you believe in something else.
His denial was fervent though and to this day,
so, unless his, is a 35 yr old secret,
I am the bearer of wizardry sweet and a calling so dear that my birdhouse remains to its brim, ever filled,
with sparkling cider and stars.