So here we are again. It’s April. The cruelest month, according to Eliot. It’s certainly cruel to poets who embrace literary BDSM in attempting 30 poems in 30 days.
Poets disclaimer: it’s 30 poems in 30 days, not 30 GOOD poems in 30 days…
Today I drove back from the country town of Berri, to my home city of Adelaide; a trip of about two and half hours, mostly along the Murray River. I find long drives on my own a huge treat. And so, tired though I am, I have written poem number one.
And it’s about today.
Somehow on the open road
I recapture something.
Memories of roadhouses
Hungry and busting for a pee
Pulling over at tiny towns: each one with a bakery.
The soporific hum of the engine.
The cars change, yet the sound stays the same
I can’t doze off though.
I’m the one who’s driving now, rather than dad.
Mum never learnt.
I can stop where I like. Eat what I want.
But still revert to the teen treats.
My usual baguette is replaced with a chicko roll.
My coffee with a fizzy raspberry.
Sometimes I just pull over at the side of the road.
Turn the engine off. And listen.
Sink into the warm, low hum of the Australian countryside.
And immerse myself in nostalgia for my childhood.
The one I never had.