Tadpoles in The Creek
Posted: Tue Dec 28, 2010 11:14 am
Speaking of the Tadpole poem in another post - so I thought I should post it. I don't think I have posted it on this new site. I have very fond memories of the time I spent with this Aunty and Uncle . I must have been 3 1/2 or 4 and stayed with them for just over a year. I also spent other short periods in their care, the last time being at aged 15. When I was sent to them for 6 months while my mother helped an other sister (there were 10 sisters and 5 brothers) with her boarding house in Sydney. Aunty Tess was my mothers older sister.
TADPOLES IN THE CREEK
© Zondrae King (Corrimal) 04/09
We lived in suburbia back when I was a kid,
the concrete of the footpath was so hard,
but when we went to Aunty’s place I loved the things we did.
A creek ran by the bottom of their yard.
On its’ bank there grew an ancient weeping willow tree.
Its’ drooping branches acted like a rope.
We’d grab a bundle with both hands and take a giant leap.
We’d make the other side with one long lope.
Even in the driest times a gentle trickle ran.
It gurgled over gravel, stone and root.
When sometimes we discovered there were tadpoles in the creek
we knew that summers’ day would be a beaut.
Tadpoles – magic, fat and black – I picture them today.
When newly hatched they had no legs at all.
Escaping through your fingers with a tickle and a squirm
no matter how I tried they’d always fall
back into the water that was cool and clear and sweet.
We’d giggle and we’d squeal with delight.
When, finally, we caught them we would put them in a jar.
Aunt said that we could keep them overnight.
Rushes grew along the creek to over five feet high.
We used a rusty knife to cut them down
then spent the afternoon in weaving mats to picnic on,
or twisting willow branches to a crown.
Every summer, I would hear the new Cicadas call.
Their crispy skins clung half way up the tree.
I sometimes sat and watched, intent, the adult bug emerge.
All nature was pure mystery to me.
Aunty’s house was old and it was pulled down years ago.
With heavy heart I watched the dozers come.
To benefit the neighbourhood they built a shopping mall.
It may have pleased the most but not the some.
Under concrete inches thick, the creek still runs today
but sometimes in my mind I take a peek
at memories of Summers and Cicadas songs of youth
and Aunty’s, catching tadpoles in the creek.
TADPOLES IN THE CREEK
© Zondrae King (Corrimal) 04/09
We lived in suburbia back when I was a kid,
the concrete of the footpath was so hard,
but when we went to Aunty’s place I loved the things we did.
A creek ran by the bottom of their yard.
On its’ bank there grew an ancient weeping willow tree.
Its’ drooping branches acted like a rope.
We’d grab a bundle with both hands and take a giant leap.
We’d make the other side with one long lope.
Even in the driest times a gentle trickle ran.
It gurgled over gravel, stone and root.
When sometimes we discovered there were tadpoles in the creek
we knew that summers’ day would be a beaut.
Tadpoles – magic, fat and black – I picture them today.
When newly hatched they had no legs at all.
Escaping through your fingers with a tickle and a squirm
no matter how I tried they’d always fall
back into the water that was cool and clear and sweet.
We’d giggle and we’d squeal with delight.
When, finally, we caught them we would put them in a jar.
Aunt said that we could keep them overnight.
Rushes grew along the creek to over five feet high.
We used a rusty knife to cut them down
then spent the afternoon in weaving mats to picnic on,
or twisting willow branches to a crown.
Every summer, I would hear the new Cicadas call.
Their crispy skins clung half way up the tree.
I sometimes sat and watched, intent, the adult bug emerge.
All nature was pure mystery to me.
Aunty’s house was old and it was pulled down years ago.
With heavy heart I watched the dozers come.
To benefit the neighbourhood they built a shopping mall.
It may have pleased the most but not the some.
Under concrete inches thick, the creek still runs today
but sometimes in my mind I take a peek
at memories of Summers and Cicadas songs of youth
and Aunty’s, catching tadpoles in the creek.