In a stagnant figure eight pond framed by a wobbly lichen fence
Its wooden posts powdered, the wire tension long gone
We hunted tadpoles
Our pool full of kids on kickboards

Dipping, we dragged coat-hangers through the water
Nets made with Nana’s stockings stretched over them
Smeared with slime and colonial mud
Ripe with the blood of broken forests

On the highway time sped past at 100km
But here it hung, perpetually Xmas eve

We lingered in our youth while Dad and Uncle Ken re-found theirs
Two sets of brothers, bickering and batting blowflies
With hands soaked in frog piss

God knows where the girls were
Dicing kiwifruit and making small talk about leaving their husbands


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