I've only ever caught one fish,
Shiny bass on dark Sydney river,
Tea tannin waters by low quiet banks.
Grump delighted and me surprised
It happened at all, I don't really do
Boy things. That day for me — the oars,
Rowing the boat with him in it,
Memory of a memory
Hovering on the river,
Three fish and home we go.
But then the splash, my rod and reel
Knocked overboard.
Down they went, sinking quick
Into the quiet ink, to be with the fish.
He laughed and was sorry,
And I was surprised at this intimate
Softness to him shared,
Our conspiracy of acceptance.
Off now to the fishing shop,
New reels in origami boxes:
Listen to the spin spin spin and click,
The shiny, silver bail and hard line;
All's mended by new reel bought.
New fishing now — casting on the lake
With bamboo rods, losing lures
In the reeds. I thought he would shout
At three lures down,
Lose patience with me
Finally, but he smiled and cut
And refit the line
In between fly casting —
His meditation of whisks and flicks,
Curls released and retracted:
Slow dance of the heavy man waders.
My memory now only of his
Patience with me.
Spending time alone,
Just men (where's Dad?),
Patient with me.
Five names on five boxes;
Boxing with the old brown gloves:
"Go on, hit him, keep your guard up";
The Daisy gun.
Sifting sand for mortar
Near Katoomba through
Three grades of mesh,
Filtering and bagging
And coming home.
Men's work,
In the sand and on the river,
Quiet, with no words to show
But silvered fish and smooth stones.
"I'll have that!" (paddle pop stick)
And two litre white ice cream tubs,
For gluing and for mending.
Growling under the note in church before
The smell of ground coffee after mass
In wooden boxes with rosellas.
Turn, grind, turn — smell the coffee —
Boys grinding towards bacon and eggs.
The sound of him talking of his son John,
The PhD! "Of course, it's in Fortran Fooour,
He works at Fluooor, I can't follow
What he does, it's Geostatistics".
Pocket knife on a string,
Home made clothes, Araldite fingertips.
The rugby on Ten and Tommy Raudonikis —
But it's never Newtown's turn.
Why is this angry, violent man
So gentle with me? Patient.
Sleeping in the wing back chair,
Flotie tube like a crown, grounded
Neptune — no trident but trifocals;
The spaghetti that night
The hard side of al dente.
But need you a theodolite?!
Survey the land, the landscape,
The bodies of ore,
The grateful dark sky.
My story, my story isn't Grump,
The bully who I struggle
To remember bullying me,
Is that just the softness of time?
The infinite length of old tyre tread
Running through the dusty garage,
Past the hard vice and toothy saws,
Beneath the multigrips and socket sets,
The little and the large screwdrivers.
Fitting out the Hiace, two little beds,
One either side, and little curtains too,
To cover the rods lined up underneath.
Hose and bucket, support ring for a shower,
Built in fridge, the run of pine
Soft and straight, straight sawed,
That made that van his home.
What place then for night beneath the stars?
Grump's driving to Adelaide — Muntie! —
Driving back, Eucumbene and Pascal's Wager.
I've idealised him, I know I have,
It's not the truth
But the story of a man
Unconfused about himself.
He made things with his hands
And I make words
But there is romance here
Among the reels and lures,
The coffee and the tea dark waters
Of the still river and the single,
Solitary, shiny little bass. Time
And the patience of time
And the roll of river —
Loud man quiet, quiet boy shrill —
Staring at his pockets in the silence
Of the waters, carried by his softness
And laughing with him still.