Cherries, berries, ferries, convict cemeteries,
National park’ed marsupial sanctuaries.
Inland capillaries of river tributaries.
Bubbled in capes, peninsulas, points,
French n’ Dutch new name anoints,
Trip Advisor blah’ed, Gourmet Traveller famed joints.
Re-imagined, past decade or two,
Maligned by mainlander mirth’ed view,
The inbred, brother-sister brew.
Alleged net IQ emigration,
Now bulging boomer, limbo station,
A-list, foodie-on-a-bike-trail vacation.
Original Pakani, cut to their knees,
Warfare, bug violence n’ disease.
Roped-down, whipped-up, re-dressed for invader domestic ease.
Croppy convoys of convicts, bellowsers boned, rump’d and slang’ed,
Live corpses, crib cruelled, gang’ed.
Cascade Factory maids, un-swish’d, scurf’d not yet scrang’d.
Early onset tree-changers, sold-up online floggers,
Breach the Bass, decked in shiny hiking, Jan Cam joggers,
Tow palatial caravanserai, stickers protesting loggers.
‘Annuate super, jack three-quarter retirement, suburban lot,
Swap for barbed, live-wire, livestock fenced-in plot.
En-title property, declare it their spot.
Pamulwa warrior cries
No longer echo down kunanyi, where Old Beauty lies.
Nor chaingangs ker-chunk n’ zirrek, Huon Pine prise.
Chainsaw revs, axe blocks, cold diesel ute
Now rattle The Valley. Stringy bark piles, wood heater loot,
Daughter’s second-best hobby, wood-hooking pursuit.
Bumped thud. Drunk rifle finds a buck,
Involuntary, hardly perceptible flinch or duck.
Sprayed bullet not finding livestock or kids, potluck.
Aural ambush of crow-scaring, ball-bearing smother.
Guns, loved and hated, one cock to another,
.243 loaned out, moments from glancing his cousin’s mother.
Lingua franca of Island of Flinder’s,
Last lingo plied by Fanny Smith, retained by wax cylinders,
Coalesced palawa kani, dozen language mimickers.
Strand of mid-Hobart cadence, mild Turnball annunciat’.
A mumbled strangled anglo quip,
Drawled from unmoving lips down southern tip.
Beaut birds, some bats,
Bettongs n’ bandicoots, wombats.
Island state’s guilt-ridden tour sights, DPIPWE congrats.
Most quoll n’ pademelon spotted roadside,
Highlighted by headlights, unfenced bitumen pride,
Head flattened, eye popped, guts broadside.
State-wide pride in crappy weather forecast,
Arvo drizzled, chilly arctic blast,
Wrapped in bluey warmth as Forties roar passed.
Morning sun scorched skin,
Daily differentials fodder for meteorologist corrected spin.
Most locals adorn dirt or mud coloured clothin’.
Farm fresh, daisy’s milk, side of the road blackberry currency.
Greying badger boxes, bend afore the sea,
Un-ambitious for structural accuracy.
Unbothered external maintenance
Belies much loved interior, hipster romance,
Lures Spirit’ed pull-overs, antique shed finds, monochromatic mum-met-dad dance.
Dinners of salmon or trout,
Spuds, pie’d scallops, some sprout.
Desserts, sliced apple or pears, tart lemon pie pout.
Ruined by day-fresh oyster n’ lobster (both of rock),
Paired with Pinot, fizzy cordial, death bag local hock.
Kids lick creamy Viking ice. Share local dairy cheese block.
No place for sports-marketed, plastic puffed, tin toys,
Hard-worn trayed n’ frayed buses, mobile-homes for local boys.
Back seat layered in BO, boots n’ beanies, country n’ western white noise.
Trucks tinkered to tailor their torque, muffled turbo for gruntier voice.
Navigating dogs of mixed fluffy origins, emit half-strangled, growling rejoice,
Never relegated to the tray, too cold, too cruel a choice.
Hard honest games, sanctioned state-pools
Follow some form a’ Australia’s Rules,
Not a sport for chigga yaffler tools.
Toyota toots barrack good play, defence,
Only the occasional pie-hole interference,
An unfiltered thought, aired to cause some offence.
An unshakeable belief,
That Tiger still she runs, blood of a convict thief,
Expect light humoured Chrissy grief.
Still you know, feel it in your waters,
Aunty Cath’s lot, cousin’s daughters
Saw mum n’ pup rustle the bush behind ol’ man Torpers.
Dan Buckley is a stay-at-home conservationist, part-time farmer, casual dad, and full-time writer. He is currently working on a second book of poems and his first novel. A proud Huon Valley local, when not writing, Dan pulls out weeds, picks up animal poo, feeds chooks, chases miniature goats, and brushes oils through his beard. Instagram: @craplumberjack.
©DanBuckley2021
