Where I'm From

Where I'm From
By Tahlia Gobius

I am from the engine room,
from snowy gums and leaking tanks.
I am from the prickling of burrs in the soft wool.
(creaking ropes on the playground swings)
I am from the motorbikes in the distance,
from rusty iron
and floating dust sitting above the road

I'm from lemon syrup and the green room,
from bridges over creeks
From the scones and jam,
and the anzac biscuits
From the sweets after Sunday morning Mass

I'm from the daisy chains in the back paddock,
the clang of the ladder of the silo.
From the apples thrown to the possum
who took up residence in the broken canoe,
the sticks and bark constructed into huts with soft sawdust floors.

I am from the colourful bruises of a wombat hole,
from smashed windows,
in the car junk yard.
I'm from the broken axe with a splintered handle.
And the damp, limp body,
of the poisoned dog.

The snake once carved
and a pair of muddy shoes,
a bouncyball found at the back of a prickly bush;
sit in the bottom draw and await return.
I am from those moments--
such a very long time ago it seems--
and now I can't wait to experience it all again,
someday.