Demurely, Bruny
Brunette or shocking white, these wallabieshave their own special nook nearby,under that blackwood. Why just there,I ask myself: no particular foliagehas given a meaning to the spot.Something about bone-dry shadow under those boughsappears to murmur clan or family. Yes,I know that sounds kind of patronising,but when these animals go through their routineswe can see a social order clear as day.First, and utterly visible, there'sthe milkwhite mother with joey in pouch,moth-brown in hue, as are allthe rest of this little clan, one of them plainlya mum too, with her teenager.Some littoral nights, three tidy wallabiessleep beside Blanche under the darksome tree,loitering there — if we don't jerk into view.Suddenness sends them bounding off downhill,except for the white one. Yes, she's at home.You could say she's got the game by the balls,a calming mother, white as vanilla snow.
Chris Wallace-Crabbe is an Australian poet and emeritus professor in the Australian Centre, University of Melbourne.