Scooping the Stars for Breakfast

Within this dark universe of ironsand,
stars sparkled, a miser’s reimbursement
for the southerly. Even the maram sought shelter
on the bare clifftops, where bored gods
had carved their signs and wonders into the clay.
Our childhood was built with ice block sticks.
We feasted on cordial & tomato sandwiches
on the tailgate of a Holden Special.
We had sticky smiles, not sticky fingers.
Nothing that lasted was
ours. Even the dog
was communal.

Sometimes I awoke lying on that black sand,
sheltered by the white driftwood,
watching orange sparks from the fire
launched into the pre-dawn sky
(navy sky over sky-blue sea).

And when I looked down
to the river mouth
I saw the familiar red jackets
(the ones Mum sewed on her
Singer in the middle of the night)
standing guard over the nets, and
I would smile inside,
wriggle my toes deeper into Dad’s
freezing works boots,
and scoop the stars for breakfast.

From The Devil in My Shoes (2005)
Published by Auckland University Press