‘Traditions Unkept’
In the clash of cicadas at dusk
we once gathered on the back verandah—
barbie coals glowing, an old Holden
parked beneath the gum,
an esky brimming with lemon barley
and Mum’s Vegemite toast
at three in the arvo.
Our ritual: weak tea in chipped china,
shared slices from the tin on the sill,
then a slow wander to Murno’s corner shop
for a couple of lollies before the sun finally dipped.
Now the barbie stands silent,
the Holden worn and gathering dust,
the esky empty of clink and chatter,
and Murno’s windows boarded tight.
I feel the gap in those weathered boards,
the hollow where laughter used to spill,
when time stood still for toast and tea—
a nailed pause that now slips past fingers.
.
