Night Walk from Central

It’s

No ot

My

Cun – tree

Wailed The Bogan

To the Wireless World.

Talk about Sacrificial Being

Feeling Our Blee ding Hearts

As I walk from the City

In Cold Discomforting Rain

Me and My Family

I hope we can talk

The hardest things

I stop In

Favourite Warm Dining Space.

Chatting, Musical People,

I hear them Teasing,

Spicy Diners, Colourful Lovebirds,

Chai Masala for me

As I try to sneak a look

Vew their fluffy feathers,.

 Entertaining,

Emulating Lively Bollywood screenings

Above a chalked saying,

‘Hate the Sin, Love the Sinner – Mahatma Ghan-di’!

 My brain’s Synapses spark!

A return to 1957

************************************************************************

Family Farm, Christmas table

Winter time celebration

And Grandma’s special presence

Her broken English ‘A leetle beet—good for you’, as she pours some red wine

Into my glass

Of Water.

Of Water

Turns a lovely Pale Purple,

Amazing me!

Grandma,

And Grandpa years before Deceased,

Both their birth dates, pre Eighteen Eighty Eight,

Cold French Pyrnees Tribal ‘States’

From which I must make an informed Escape.

But I would like

To climb up, see Sarrance,

and the rock house where Grandpa was born,

pass through Banca,

Grandma’s home ‘til she was 18.

France Then, from where they departed, before 1915,

arriving separately, At Ellis Island, I presume.

She under an assumed name.

And amongst all the other human beings, Travelling as we all do and have done.

Tonight’s uncomfortable Sydney rain

could be ‘nothing on’

The cold, steep mountains, thick forests, rocks, icy streams,

Where probably remain

Some of our Mitocondria, DNA and genes

I’d like to return,

See the Caves of painted Bison

Remembering to keep trying to amend

My Bogan mistakes, faux paux

and unworldly stupidities,

Which too often chill all space,

When I might be enjoying warm music,

In comfortable terrains

Much thanks in gratitude