Coral Hull: Prose: Notes From The Big Park: A Night Away From Home

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: NOTES FROM THE BIG PARK
A NIGHT AWAY FROM HOME

hot dogs in the property river, tangled roots,
midday light, wet clothes chucked up a muddy

bank, carp sucking in nutrients from the edge,
thrashing about, breaking the surface, brown

water slips in from behind, quick to fill in space,
i shudder, cry out, the movement beneath the

water stops, the dogs are tense, but there is no
intruder, just breasts adrift in the filtered light,

sun-branded skin, and current slapping up my
spine, as a water rat swims ashore, with an oil-

slick pelt, shaking off droplets, like a small dog
in the heat, i could easily slide back in, spewing

bubbles like a crayfish, or heavy like a log, to
be nudged aside by cattle, who come knee

deep in mud, to drink in litres in the late
afternoon, as a giant red sun sinks through the

river gums, the dogs suggest we make a move
and head for home, a hurried claw along my

leg, a wet nose to my wrist, as dusk settles on
the rough clay plains, as windy blue stars shine

out over stones, coolibah and stunted box,
and a clear cold river around a bend and then

another, to the dusty backblocks of twin rivers,
collerina and westmunda, a green tree frog

slams onto my foot, and leaps off into the
scrub, where he croaks for hours, singing of

moisture down in the dams, in a night so wild,
i cannot enter the house, with its electric lights

blaring out, where my father smokes, staring
off into space and slow-falling satellites, beyond

the window above the sink, until just on sunrise,
in the frosty morning, a magpie scrambles

across the roof, a large verandah gradually
warming, daylight creeping up the lino, lifting

the colour of faded bedspreads, gidgee breakfast
logs unthawing, tin expanding along

the guttering, smoke from the woodstove, dad
unshaven, cold suds splashed onto his cheeks,

brrrrr brrrrr, his shaving mirror and chunk of
sunlight soap, the dogs run on ahead, into the

welcome kitchen, tails gladly wagging, the smell
of browning toast, vegetable oil spitting,

fried onions and tomatoes, we arrive in time for
porridge and syrup, past my father sitting at the

table, rolling a joint, clearing his throat, as his
conversation of birds starts up, i reach out,

strike a match, put the kettle on, my eyes wide
and brown, and a smile as high as clouds,

muddy dogs with heads in feed bowls, the rain-
water boiling, words gently flowing

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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