Cockatoo Funeral
After his funeral in Bunbury
and back at the house,
I went to clear the washing line
but heard his voice
from over the boundary fence:
a cheery “ow yuh goin’, eh?”
For a Lazarus moment
the neighbour’s caged cockatoo
had heard my steps
and, thinking it Dad, called out
in his nuanced turn of phrase—
their usual call sign “ow yuh goin’, eh?”
Despite this viva voce
from the realm of parrot
Dad was not there
and the parrot only seemed to
have a turn of phrase;
faux, parrot-fashion, on a tape.
Lazarus did not achieve fame
on a first century speaking circuit:
“Listen to the man who died
and then came back again
with tales from that far realm.”
There was no queue on Easter Day.
Mostly, we do not get these kindly gestures.
No message comes.
No one tweets: “Arrived safely.”
Life moves on. McAuley said
“We cannot call the dead collect.”
The boundary wall has a silent ratchet gate
as the tumblers fall into place.
Ivan Head
Generous Days: Barraba New South Wales
Cane sewing baskets are inherited,
not thrown out or E-bayed.
She has her mother’s, her aunt’s,
and her father’s. He needed one
when he stayed in the Barraba house,
where needle and thread
would fix nets and wrap eyelets to rods:
and where we rarely went
even when the Murray Cod
were in the river, and he had taken
the long day’s drive to stay and fish—
after the economic rationalists had
ripped out the trainline from Tamworth,
leaving a bus or the car their only vision
of connectedness for slowly dying
country towns; towns where an Anzac pillar
stands on to mark year zero—
and demographic surveys
state the bleeding obvious
that the young drift annually to the coast
and do not come back. From the veranda
at Barraba I see the full moon shine above the hills.
The white-trunked gum trees gleam
and seem to dance, momentarily.
From the veranda at Barraba,
the full moon shines, as if no trees were ever cleared:
the open forest of white-trunked gum trees
immersed, gleaming, dancing
in the season of white blossom:
honey, free, sweet; the white mimesis
of clay flowers, the greater poesis, dancing
bodies daubed white amidst the dancing trees.
I imagine the uncut forest
then: in the season of dancing,
beneath the dancing moon,
of eucalyptus bloom,
of ochre-flower dreaming,
shining in the night hills at Barraba
glimpsed from the veranda
gum leaves gleaming, generous days.
Ivan Head