Wacol – Rion Pym Schaare

my mother rose
                  from the concrete floor
somewhere in Germany taking her bones and barely
there flesh
                   she aimed beyond
                                                    the wire fences
                    her blood
                          pumping
her escape from a war
that had killed
              many
in migration
                   she found a country
                                                 with skies so blue
                                                 earth dry brown in the summer
green when it rained
                               where lizards hid
                                                         their ancient shapes
on tree trunks
and cicadas left
                       their shells behind
hardening up
in the ninety degree
                               heat
at night in the cool
              they rasped their song
in that bustle
of the sixties
                     the corrugated iron huts
housed us
                and it was under those ribbed forms
where her body in sleep
breathed and dreamt
                                         a mix of goose stepping
                                                                             shapes
intent on mischief
while at the wire surrounds
of Wacol
                  her children clung
to their secret of the runaway
                                              watching traffic
pass by on the highway
the barbed wire overwhelming
                                               them
with their sense of freedom
                                           to wander here and there
all on their own
just like the frogs and lizards
                                            they saw on the way
each day
               a new print on the ground