The Letter
It's whimsical all right - Old School to the max
This refusal to use email or text to keep in touch
And me going along with it
For some sentimental reason
I don’t know what
My ageing teacher writing in cursive and ink on parchment from Victoria
And me responding, after much faffing about, as he used to say,
Having located glasses, and a pen,
(Not this one, dried up, or that, running out), rummage, rummage, OK,
Grab a pink Texta, and a clutch of random scores, bin-destined, wonky prints
Then, finally to begin, on the back of crumpling scrap,
Covering family news, (hope not too boring or own-horn-blowing crap)
Unaccustomed hand cramping as I segue in memory to the long-ago days
As a teenager, at the Busy Bee Arcade,
Scaling near-vertical, rickety stairs, to the Perth Guitar Hub
With its city glamour, tobacco fugue clouding ornate roofs,
The whine of tattoo guns and pub clamour, bassline of James Street delivery vans and
Outbound trains melding with clients' moans next door
While we students muddled through the strains of Capricho Arabe
And El Testament D'Amelia…Aguado, Carcassi, Sor
Thirty years hence in the midwinter valley, in the next century, I’m thinking of
BEECHWORTH, BAARMUTHA, boom-time gold rush Indigo,
Rifling thrifted cards, (where's an envelope that sticks?)
Making mess ransacking drawers for tape, then bracing for a mad dash home,
Minutes from close, to find the street address
Now to scour our gift store for something authentic – among camel soaps and lavender
Pomades, emu goo, fig jam, verjus,
Clay gnomes, wattleseed scrub, B Happy Honey, Rob’s Spicy Rub
Or these figures cast from railway bolts, or scented bath salts, pioneer teatowels,
Oils, or Moondyne bushranger paraphernalia emblazoned ‘Toodyay, Western Australia’
What says ‘my town' and will make it, sans breakage?
What captures the essential vibe?
Settle for shortbread with lemon myrtle and hurtle to get it stamped and away
SMS him after all, after all this fuss,
'Thx for yr letter,' and 'Mail's coming...2 weeks’ ETA.'
Lemon Tree
We inherited the remnants, the last of a mixed early settler orchard
Crossing a border – limestone blocks, recycled wire, a makeshift barrier
Between neighbours
Mickey got the oranges; we got the lemon - hardly Sycamore Gap, of course,
But to us, significant in its persistence on the hill
A spot to head to, to piss, pick fruit, or watch over the chicken pen
Built in gold-green shade, gazing across Mount Anderson to the smoke-streaked sun,
The wheaten horizon, dots of sheep, quartzite caves, canola and oats spearing skyward
Through mists in our forgotten valley,
Duidgee, West Toodyay, Place of Plenty…
Knotty, with scarred, split trunk, yet yielding luscious, pip-free gifts,
Our Eureka thrived on nothing, soil like granite, thorny limbs resisting frostbite and saw,
Unpampered with mulch beyond a handful of confettied chook poo,
When we thought of it, getting by on July downpour and country toughness
Like all those plants and pioneers who'd come before
We loved this tree.
Lobes by the crate load, squeezed on fish, sugared
In tea, or seeped for squeaky-cleanness, masking
The musk of rescue cats
And septic in the shack
Later, a side hustle of bush honey, cacophony of bees
In blossoming Makuru and Djilba, Spring hives in the jamwood,
Flinder’s Range Wattle-fragrant ooze
Mingling with fermented quandong and cumquats - soft, zesty windfalls
Too copious to collect, as mould blotched their skins and the ants moved in
Twenty years hence, with sinking water table and three
Dry winters in a row
Finally our tree withered and broke
And though we held out hope,
This time it didn't reshoot
Now, my son, who matched its growth sapling by sapling
And foot by foot
Gathers the gnarled branches, seasoned and snapping and
Feeds them to the pot belly,
Jaws roaring
The lemon's last burst of light and life's
So hot the house boils; sweating, we strip jumpers and scarves,
Have to turn on the fan full tilt
To dissipate the heat on this icy night of
Citrus-scented memory.
A musician, poet, journalist, photographer, editor, gardener, teacher and mental health advocate, Naomi Millett is a passionate practitioner and supporter of the Arts in regional WA. Her grandmother was the author and historian Dame Mary Durack. She has edited new anthologies of Duracks’ writings and currently publishes a wellbeing newsletter distributed across the Wheatbelt. She was recently the winner of The Empty Chair creative expression competition run by the Grief Society of WA. She has lived in West Toodyay for almost two decades and has deep respect for, and ties with, this beautiful community village and its rich Ballardong and pioneer history. Also concerned for endangered wildlife and environments, Naomi campaigns for the preservation of local forests and dreams of one day volunteering as a rhino keeper, at Perth Zoo.
Locative Magazine 