Migrant tales

In 1975 with £700, one-way
British Airways to Brisbane
bought a Holden Kingswood,
wages that saved, a torrent of
sunshine and wanderlust
that beckoned across an unsealed
Nullarbor to
Perth, City of Lights, State Of
Excitement, opportunity
knocking. And you worked 6 day weeks
to raise me, own houses, upgrade
cars, paint, host dinner parties while
returning to the place
you called Home in
reverential whispers, even
as unrelenting summers rendered memories
bent like Uri Geller cutlery, ill-fitted
to drawers, misplaced within kitchen’s
purpose.

Now once-was Dad
rests on a chocolate
recliner wearing a plastic
helmet to shelter dreams, and his
jaw’s scraped from someone
else’s razor work.

Hands like hesitant brushes
stroke and eyelids flutter
with R.E.M. – asleep or comatose? I
cannot tell.

Shiny skin at crossed
calves and open mouth expose
what this life
winnowed:  Teeth, hair,
presence deleted by
dementia and yet –

and yet, such
peaceful repose.

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