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"Traditions Unkept"

In the clash of cicadas at dusk

we once gathered on the back verandah—

barbie coals glowing, an old Holden

parked beneath the gum,

an esky brimming with lemon barley

and Mum’s Vegemite toast

at three in the arvo.

Our ritual: weak tea in chipped china,

shared slices from the tin on the sill,

then a slow wander to Murno’s corner shop

for a couple of lollies before the sun finally dipped.

Now the barbie stands silent,

the Holden gone and gathering dust,

the esky empty of clink and chatter,

and Murno’s windows boarded tight.

I feel the gap in those weathered boards,

the hollow where laughter used to land,

time stilling itself for toast and tea—

a gentle pause I let slip through my fingers.

.