Almanac Poetry: ‘Every Detail’ – Tommy Mallet

 

 

 

Every Detail

 

We swim in rock pools,
five-year-old daughter and I,
laughing at the surf, beyond kelp reefs, safe,
glorious,
as I slowly reteach arms and legs and backs to
straighten,

 

unwinding work’s pain.

 

*****

 

One pool has a channel under it,
leading to the ocean,
swelling with every wave.

 

The kid self-amuses, while I
flop about in clear, dark water, listening to the rhythm
of each set, trying to correlate them
with my rise and fall.

 

   *****

 

I swim in my undies,
her in her clothes.

 

Nothing’s been planned.

 

Work led to hurt, led to a hungry road,
that needed me over the ranges,
near her.

 

For us to be somewhere,
devouring the remains of these days.

 

   *****

 

Stepping back onto the beach,
grimy work pants fit easy,
over salty skin.
My work shirt covers her, a poncho, a tent,

 

a wall of dirt and invincibility,
that would put Superman’s skin
to shame.

 

*****

 

It’s, surely, dinnertime,
so the world would say,
but we’re not done.

 

Half dollar wages got us here late.
My child and I have our own pace
to set.

 

Pulling the bourbon can from my pocket,
I roll up her sleeve enough to
hold her small, sand-covered hand,
as we meander towards
a perfect view.

 

Blue and white waves rumble and carry on,
towards the ebb and flow of a rolling beach
being carried kilometres
by a rickety wind.

 

   *****

 

A shore fisherman underpins our moment,
giving it postcard worth.

 

“G’day, Tommy,” says
Spud Armitage,
from that rural supply centre they call a town,
100kms north.

 

We knocked about a bit, in the day,
friends of friends.

 

It’s been years.

 

Cancer’s been cut from his neck,
he says.
He’s staying in the Bay,
60kms east, he says.
Next to old man Steere’s house,
from the road crews,
he says.

 

We watch the kid pick up his catch,
fascinated by its scales,
not one bit scared of death,
squeezing

 

so its mouth talks.

 

When I listen close,
in the windy silence,
the fish almost tells me I’m a fool,
that I have a family to support,
yet decades in the bush,
have left body parts barely able to make it
through days.

 

Nudging her to give Spud his catch back,
I tell him I always liked old man Steele,
and ask him to say g’day.

 

   *****

 

It feels good, knowing
the man that is the view,
knowing the view.

 

Knowing that if it wasn’t him,
it would have been the cray-fisherman Timmy,
who I coached in footy,
in the mountains, when he was young.

 

Or Doug,
who employed me for a while
way back of the ridge.
Or Splitter,
and his insane hillbilly mob

 

from down the Channel Vale valley.

 

The gravel car park has four or five surfer’s cars
cupped in its hands,
as the kid and I make to leave.

 

Nice cars, clean boys,
city voices, mannerisms,
that stand out a mile.

 

   *****

 

Finn was here when we arrived,
from way down the coast,
200kms easy,
with his enormous, luscious beard,
and rollies,
that can’t hide his forever-warm smile,
all those tattoos,
his generous sway,

 

cut loose from family for half-a-day.

 

When he asked how my clan are,
I like him enough to have said; “Ebbs and flows”,
to which he smiled that smile,
and said; “Yeah…”

 

   *****

 

The kid wants to say good-bye, but Finn’s
already gone.

 

“Then say it to the surfies,” I tell her.

 

“Night, night,” she tells them,
in daylight.
“Hello, goodbye,” the nearest one smiles.

 

*****

 

It feels good,
to be topless with muddy jeans, covered in salt,
barefooted,
have the kid draping herself around in
that ridiculous worktop.

 

“Any seat,” I tell her,
as she climbs in,
both of us free.
She takes the front, next to me.

 

I buckle her in,
but not myself.
There’s freedom involved.

 

I assume the untethered
chainsaw, tools, are still on the trey,
not really caring either way.

 

   *****

 

Loud, obscure 60s garage
kicks in with the ignition.
“When I’m an adult, I’m going to be a punk,”
the kid says,
which would stress her mum no end,

 

but this is our moment,

 

a glorious, bulletproof window,
between dead-end jobs, to feed her,
and compromise.

 

Fatherhood,
in all its sway.

 

   *****

 

I take off,
drink in hand,
her eating my lunch leftovers,
on our way back to dinner,
last night’s leftovers,
music everywhere.

 

A golden, setting sun,
burning deep, rich colour into
valley walls,
lighting up our wiper-streaked windshield dust.

 

Surfers stare.

 

I have become that man,
the shore fisherman,
the rust,
a part of their view,
the sea eagle,
paddocks and cows,

 

as is, I guess, my child.

 

*****

 

The kid hums and razzes me, and says something
offensive I pull her up on,
and dags about
just right,
as gravel takes us up
walls of sun-lit grass,
either side of things I would
leave behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

More poetry from Tommy Mallet can be read Here.

 

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

 

If you would like to receive the Almanac Music and Poetry newsletter we will add you to the list. Please email us: [email protected]

 

To return to the www.footyalmanac.com.au  home page click HERE

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE