I remember days at La Pa

going out with the Aunties

to look for quandongs

growing on the hill

Selecting bright bush cherries

ready to drop

─ a bite too bitter still

for my sweet tooth

The women would laugh

as they sorted

patting hot-pink fruit laced

with wild honey

teaching us bush tucker way

Each ball rolled on the tongue

─ sent a sudden shock

to the back of my throat

A sweet sour hit

─ the after-taste

perfumed

with blossom

Image: Giuseppe Milo / flickr