The Divide

Issue EightIssue Eight PoetryPoetry

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By Anthony Lawrence


While the other boys were drawing their guns

and falling into the ruins of an open pavilion

of sky and pines, I was standing on the onion-

skin of a boulder, watching my father running

in to bowl. The oval had been reclaimed

from paddocks dark at the edges with rusting

farm machinery and Angus cattle. Boys were

dropping to earth mined with rabbit holes

and erosion. Through smoke from spent caps

I saw him waving, his arms like semaphore.

When I stood to wave back I was shot.

Playing dead, I heard the bright applause

of players, followed by a name clipped off

at the root: Well bowled, Col. I looked over

the bodies of boys and saw him running

into the outfield, his flannel shirt and baggy

trousers flapping, unlikely as a magic trick

in the middle of an innings in Protestant heat

high in the ranges of the Great Divide.