Ashes Of Roses

Not a hop, step and jump, but a stumble
from the gravel road, when a stubbed toe
leads the way to a giant leap

since the house was on the low side of the street
approached by descending steps, flanked

by rose bushes in terraces. Too busy
back in the 1960s, I wouldn’t contemplate
such a feat, but in retrospect, imagine

I could have taken flight, a magic carpet ride
minus carpet, skirting our tiny house

tinier outhouse, quarter acre block
unfinished back fence, track, scrub
and wound up in Winding Creek

or if luck held, I’d float further
to the slopes of Munibung Hill

where a farmer kept cattle that escaped
one night and ate all the cabbages
they didn’t trample, just when our patch

was at its peak for harvest.
As this is conjecture, I should chastise

the cows for disturbing
our agricultural endeavours.
The suburb was semi-rural

and we toyed with self-sufficiency
before we knew its meaning.

The two-bedroom doll’s house, quaint
despite rose-covered carpet and chintz curtains
not my taste, but too expensive

for newly-weds to replace, lulled us
into thinking we were there for it

for we were childless and had so much to learn.
Earlier on the enchanted ride I may have noticed
one for whom we’d searched in vain

our Pekinese pup, Tiki
with her sad, almost-human face

under the grapevine
and intervened
in time to save her from the tick.