There is no key to my father’s lock
he was made of reinforcing steel
and recycled refrigerator racks
welded into a portcullis for the chooks,
made of jars of screws marked with black scrawl
of brassy instruments in wooden cases
dividers for measuring maps
a sextant for stars and sun.
He was the whiff of horses’ hooves
the cantering rhythm of the handkerchief game
he was marmalade splattered on the ceiling
or slathered on toast
ships and rigging fitted into bottles.
He was the wooden farmhouse with lifting rooves
the bonfire coat and smell of salt-petre
he was singed eyebrows
and the puff of wind on water
the steadying of the centreboard
and lift of red sails in a breeze.
He was ships biscuits, depth charges
and the sound of the Azdic pinging
on the hull of a submarine.
He was quick orders in catastrophes
calm when the horse cast herself in the float
he was knots swiftly tied and leverage
he was courage and the awkward tenderness
of a finger held out to a grandson.
He was silence and formality
silly giggling and hiding in spindly trees
or lying flat in the grass at hide-and-seek.
He was manure and khaki shirts and cabbage-tree hats
he was medals and gold braid
he was a wheezy chest and bugle played in the loo each morning
firefighter until past seventy
and no endearments.
He was debate at the dinner table, limb of Satan
he was dancing the highland fling
or cossack leaps with a cushion on his head
he was a mouth organ playing in a boat
while a dolphin circled us in the evening near Barrenjoey.
He was wearing a red ice-cream bucket on his head
smiling at me through the kitchen window.
Charlotte Clutterbuck
Best Australian Poems, ed. Geoff Page, Black Ink, 2014
Posted on – June 24, 2023