Classic Poem

Greywacke mostly, & fat pale
clay where I troubled the hills about
Wellington (Brooklyn-west) that
you dug through to reach China as a
kid out-the-back of our place.
The gorse gully and yellow flowers,
black seed-pods bursting in the summer
heat. Down you went past broken
bottled glass to the untouched cool
clay hoping any moment to pot hole up
into a paddy field through the
earths centre. Every failed dig
stayed a secret from adults, forever.