Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

For most of summer there is no sunrise in Antarctica
no banishing of dark
no painting of dawn.
At 4:15 am, the sky usually retina contracting bright
is bruised with cloud
razor blade grey – Soviet Berlin grim.

Quilted quiet is everywhere
the sleeping in dawn of a public holiday.
Routine talks loudly over whispers of uncertainty
anxiety is placed on standby.

In the mess hall, unfamiliar faces and urgent calm
a crime scene from which the body has been removed
alien and unmysterious
like a child knowing a never before tone
and as a parent begins  ….“Grandad …..”
comprehension just is.  And everything else appendix.
Cryptic military patois.
An aircraft incident
D59.
SAR.
Medevac.

Knowledge forms to shock. Explanation can wait.
A plane crash
two fatalities
emphasis on the first syllable – fate.

An army marches on its stomach
for now
breakfast must be served.
The queue is scanned for missing faces.
Later names are matched. I knew both.

For almost 40 years since the war
the country had been ruled by men who had been to war
conservatives – left and right
unlisterners
know bests
who proclaimed democracy
but wished it wasn’t so democratic.

Fogged in monochromatic boredom
voters distal to war memory
yearned for colour
for divorce from grey besuited complacency.
He was the precisely what hope was seeking
someone with a mortgage
someone who understood hopes were not dreams
a plainsman who did burgers and beer – for enjoyment, not photo ops.

At town halls unfilled for decades
queues formed to hear the vision.
Inclusion.
Participation.
Equality.
The future could be now.
just reach out and touch the ballot box
election day and landslide to electorate euphoria.

Should outrage have been surprised
when the secret pact with monetarism was revealed?
Discretion often colludes with disclosure
interviewees do not expound weakness
or
sellers volunteer value lowering flaws.
The nation never quite forgave the consenting hypocrisy
more got over it
there was even clenched teeth acknowledgement
some reform was necessary and overdue.

The real victim wasn’t job loss
or stratospheric mortgage rates
or destruction of single industry small towns
it was optimism.
David Lange shared the stage with glittering hope
and dismembered his co-star so viscerally
no sequel was ever possible.

The school playground
hierarchical cool of talent and hip
for the fortunate, both
the outcasts, neither.
Sports like rock ‘n’ roll bands
number one for a fleeting year or two.
In high school it was cricket.
the age of obese moustaches
chest opened shirts of doormat hair and gold chains – Idols.

Boredom and consummation have their fill
the number diminishes to two
after 60 minutes and countless return throws
patience wants to end with the tangibility of the bat
Steven can go first
now
my turn.

Steven’s father has arrived early
he stands alongside requesting the bat.
Instinct expects advice on technique
parents do not seem to able to resist.
Surprise
and betrayal.
We will bowl to him
and bowl
and bowl.

The ball skims off concrete
he doesn’t see adolescent pouting
doesn’t see outrage at queue jumping
doesn’t see resentment at opportunity denied.
Suit coat removed
tie loosened
he sees the horizon
a life without deadlines or mortgage
the hero of self conquered fields of dreams
once again he is young.