We began by telling stories to each other,
penny each, too easy adding bits to make
punch lines, like simply adding a few more
broken biscuits into the brown paper bag,
each chip an ironic twist or funny ending,
precious crumbs to add piquancy, taste of
luxury chocolate coating, sense of luxury,
and always the up the duff pause, drama
emerging, truths untruths unfolding enfolding,
partners in the crime of complicity, gang of
thieves, someone else’s narrative purloined
shamelessly, ownership nine tenths of bush
law and who would be so bold as to speak out
and break the unspoken rule of brotherhood,
‘tell us about the turkey Joe’, scars of adventure
laid bare those swollen river days, fish boating,
Murray cod Redfin, snakes swimming across the
border, Barmah forest roos coursing through
flood plains out of reach of rifles, bouncing in
between river red gums home of shadows, of
storyline people we could never see, just smoke
from their fires where their narratives drifted
skywards with authenticity we could never
dream of in our fantasy world, fuelled by beer
and unrealities we were moulding with our late
adolescent hands, clay that would one day dry
cracked, unable to hold water, pass the test of time,
testament to wasted youth in which we had
found and lost a chance to have found insights
to pass on in the relay of generations, we who
might have hunted down something for warmth,
sustenance, if we had shot or speared respected
fauna, wrapped ourselves in furred clothing, slept
the sleep of authentic narratives, strong enough
to hand down in the theatre of winking stars and
crackling fires, down the ages across country.