FOR MY BROTHER

The Night You Died

The night you died
I walked around the house
and looked at all the things
you’d given me:

the teddy bears, the fluffy fox,
the Wallace and Gromit figurines,
the Swarovski pig,
the Caithness paperweight.

And I looked at your baby photos,
your teenage photos and all the photos
between then and now -
73 years of them.

Even in
those recent photos
you seemed
a young man to me.

My brother.

With your baggy shorts,
your sixties hairdo
and later, those touches of grey
in your hair.

The night you died
I remembered you
just weeks before,
at our mother’s birthday;

your tanned hands
holding the knife
that cut our mother’s
heart-shaped cake.

So Far

I went back to Tasmania
for the funeral.

The sky was
a cruel blue

and a southerly blew
the Derwent into surf.

We drove over the bridge
to the funeral home

and later to a sunlit hill
where they buried you.

Annie Lennox sang
you to rest:

“Lay down your sweet
and weary head…”

among olives and gum trees
with a view of the sea.

But in the night
I worried about you:
my big brother;

always claustrophobic
and now so far under ground
with the weight of the world
on your chest…

No Sign

There’s a path that leads
to Seven Mile Beach
from the car park
not far from the avenue
lined with gum trees.

There’s a patch of gravel
beside the place
where you parked your car
on the day you took your
last walk.

We walked through
the sand dunes,
your wife and I,
to a place where we could see
the beach.

We traced your path
along the sand
then inland to the track
through the pine forest
that led back to the car park.

On the spot
where you died
we stood arm in arm
and said
“There is no sign”

but there was:

a faint stain in the sand:
maybe blood,
maybe water.
Maybe
the essence of you.

THE YARRAMBAT SPINNER

He wore white shorts and a singlet.
His plimsolls had no tread.
But the power of his deliveries
filled my heart with dread

He could bowl a dustbin over
with his artful, deadly spin.
The rebound struck the garage door
and almost stove it in.

He aimed between my ankles
(white soxed or grimed with dust)
and In his pin-point accuracy
I put my tweenage trust.

I raised my home- made cricket bat
(a piece of wooden plank)
and gave that well-worn tennis ball
all the force I had.

But I never made a century,
Seldom hit a four;
I never made a six
hardly ever made a score

against his penetration
his accuracy, his might:
His power and concentration
was a truly awesome sight.

He was seven – or was it fourteen?
He was fit and lean and wiry
He was a rocket- arm from way- back
determined, fast and fiery.

He was my all-time cricket  idol
(for years I knew no other)
He was the Yarrambat Spinner
- he was my older brother.

A Lock of Hair

After the funeral
they gave me
a lock of your hair

tied with purple ribbon
and tucked into
a little cardboard box.

Your surname
is written on the box
in black ink.

The lock of hair
is soft to the touch
and curled in a perfect circle.

Your hair
was always thick
and unruly

unlike mine: thin and fine;
always fair and now
unnaturally blonde.

unlike our mother’s;
mousey brown
and now white as snow.

Unlike our father’s:
flat and black
with a Hitlerish slick.

I don’t know what to do
with this lock of your hair.

Perhaps it should be
preserved in resin
or kept in a golden locket

but it lies coiled
in its cardboard coffin
like a spring.

I need to take it
to some beautiful windy place;
hold it gently
between my fingers

then
let you go.