near the sheep-strewn town where i was weaned,
three surnames own thousands of gum-speckled
acres. a blue-eyed blonde boy was my best mate.
the majestic high-ceilinged homestead always cool
in summer heat wide hallway cavernous pool
room lawn tennis-court sculpted gardens
etcetera where he resided stood against
the old squatters’ cottage made of mud stones
& sticks which grew into my family home.
he was & remains a warm good-natured bloke
like his father entitled without imperiousness.
were they better farmers, harder workers than us.
did they deserve their 4000 acres while we
warranted 40 because instead of being a WWI
infantry man inheriting a few rocky acres of land
as pension for service my friend’s father’s grandfather
happened to be surveyor for Angas one of those
serious sepia-coloured big-sideburned men
who divvied the state giving swathes to mates
arrogantly ignoring millennia of occupation
& ensuring the deck would remain stacked
for generations
Read the rest of Overland 225
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