5 Minutes On Country

Dedicated to the Dharug peoples of the Eora Nation

I was born in Bankstown—
a genX Westie
baby-boom re-boomer.
Fifty years later
I’m back on Country

for five minutes; it’s tucked there
between someplace important and somewhere else urgent,
though by now
these hospital grounds
are a locked box.

Earth entombed under
thickest concrete, tarred,
remnant trees gaoled
by galvanised diamonds.
No Entry. Fire Egress Only.

The carpark is king,
a trompe-l’oeil monolith
with banksia.
Brutalism’s fine, but
what would Banks draw?

This Country,
stylised now into zen
gardens bordered with that hostile architecture
preventing rough sleepers
pokes out through asphalt, ruderal.

Virtue signaller par excellence, moi
I drip-feed a tree
from my flask,
squeeze bare feet
into a powdery handkerchief of dirt.

Hand to eucalypt heart
I reach for connection
that’s nowhere found.
Listen to cricket,
return the bald stare

of mister magpie.
Count the paddy wagons lined up

by the ambulance bay.