Scareship_Issue8

The Folk don’t follow, now. Hanging baskets sway gently
from the roof beams. One plant has dropped a runner into the turf.
Its row of glossy green leaves makes a track through the native
violets, spoiling the mat of purple nodding heads. I see another
runner, and another. They crisscross the violets, erasing the crisp
edge; I follow them past the shade and into the sun where, finally,
the silver grasses take over.
It bothers me; I stalk around the house. Across the road, a
Colorbond estate fence runs unbroken into the distance. The urban
edge.
I twitch my shoulders, wanting space. And that’s when I go
towards the dam.
In the scrub, relief replaces anger. I cover the hundred metres
in grass-swished steps. In the light, the dam surface is a mirror
reflecting the sky. No sign of creatures. I pause at the willowlicked
edge, then climb the hill beyond. My socks gather speargrass
and the sun beats until my breaths are heavy. I flop down on
the rocky ridge and take off my boots.
When I was five, Dad worked away and we lived at the
farmhouse. I would come up here just to see the vast horizon, and
imagine he wasn’t far away. Then, the farmhouse stuck out of
naked scrub that rolled in every direction. Now, it’s a pock
abutting a sea of zincalum roofs. And I notice other things now:
shaggy hedges escaping from the estate, cane toads rustling in the
dam reeds; the smell of Lantana in the air.
I tear at the spear-grass. The barbs tear tufts of sock-flesh, and
released, float inland, away from the suburbs. My mood sours. I
see the distant city as a great fungus, feeding, growing. I feel a
foreigner for the first time.
I turn and stare the other way. The land curves into a basin,
holding a cluster of snowy-trunked gums. Muted colours: greygreens,
dusky pinks and ochre. That’s how I can see the stuff that
doesn't belong. The lime head of prickly-pear, the bright leaves of
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