A Sydney creek.
dancing in old light.
Shallow sand sifts under toes
spiders hide in bleached bark
as we pass ti-tree tight blossom.
My grandfather, sure footed,
splashes into the shadows
seeking old haunts
of Hawkesbury sandstone.
We are hunting oysters.
Having jagged them off the rocks
he will stuff them
into long jars wrapped
in burlap, wedged in a basket;
will carry them triumphant
to his friend, a much younger woman,
while his wife waits
at home
with lemons and bread.
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