The school yard’s dense with bodies BUT I CAN’T HEAR A THING. No need to shout, a corona’s hanging around her head. The silence of summer. Here we go, across the iron bridge and onto the sports oval. Grass whistle. I’m still asleep. Memory tastes of Vita Brits. Something snaps in my ear as† the…

You know it’s just that every day this wave of International Roast it just hits me, in the common room, and I want to run. I see a pile of papers that may never get marked, handwritten notes, attendance rolls, and I just want to bolt. I navigate classrooms, listen to the bells but† it’s…

By American Creek there’s a fig tree with someone’s name written on its trunk. I hesitate to say mine. Okay, yes. In some fit of adolescent vanity I carved the initials RM there one day, after school. Never have gone back to look at it. What would be the point? Just a memory now, like…

i. By American Creek there’s a fig tree that’s been chopped off at the waist. Nothing but a brown stump remains. it’s the reason for my suburb’s name. & as for mine, you ask? Ralph will do. Mr Malvern to their friends at school. I watch them walk down O’Brien’s Rd. Reflected in the Fairlane’s…