When I was 10 in 63, I was a cub
My head full of Akala, Dibs & Dobs,
and leaping wolfs.
In the early summer we went north
to camps on the central coast,
where myriad groups bivouaced like Attilas' tribes,
and the standard of sisal lashings, splices, wooden totems,
and badges on sashes competed for status.
Each group had a bonfire.
I wore a dangerous knife, golden tassels on my camp shirt,
and gaiters for my socks.
In the evening we fought other groups on the beach,
we called these fights "rumbles".
I tackled a softer boy and pinned him down, covered
him with sand until he said
"pax"
In the night we crept up on the Surf Club through tussocks
like wily Pathans,
and listened to Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs.
In the day we climbed the big hill that overlooked the sea.
The sun glinted, the air was clear and hot
in the Australian summer.
On the train home some boys yelled and waved
toilet paper streamers like Knight's pennants.
We explored the toilets and the ricketty connections
between carriages that were strangely exciting,
we had heard of decapitated heads on telegraph poles.
I had a cucumber left from the camp,
it was still fresh.
Cool, solid, green, like a vegetable submarine.
"take it to your Mum" 'Skip" had said.
On that journey the cucumber had become my beloved.
It was precious to me, imbued with the soul of a small
loveable creature.
It became a symbol of something more.
A boy grabbed it, and laughing flung it from the train.
It smashed,
white and pulpy, like flesh,
on a telegraph pole.
Sadness overwhelmed me
and I cried.
This cold evening in August,
I think of the death of that cucumber,
and of brown uniforms, bindings, knives, rumbles,
and what boys do.
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