Beyond a virgilia-framed front gate
in a white picket fence, eclogues for rent,
we dwelt, tired after exploration’s weight.
Behind the cottage, stacked firewood, our tent
for friends we post-carded when overseas,
first Christmas since forsaking our backpacks.
Wisteria shawled our garden, lured bees,
our widowed neighbour’s radio talked back.
We fell in love with a mutt at the pound,
handy back lane seclusion for our car,
displayed quaint mementoes to settle down.
Across the road a bikie played guitar.
I forecasted in summer it won’t rain.
The tent leaked. We moved on. Traces remain.
Ian C Smith’s work has been published in Antipodes, BBC Radio 4 Sounds, cordite, The Dalhousie Review, Griffith Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Southword, & The Stony Thursday Book. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, and on Flinders Island.
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