Even the youngest have outgrown

their faith in this—big enough to zipline

across the dam, release their grip and fall,

all landings awkward and silty.

Squinting into the campfire,

we grownups agree the bottom paddock

feels too far. Lazy pagans, we carry our

offerings in plastic packets.

  We prepare

the nearer ground; we sow it with jewels,

which glint in abundance from tufts

and hide under boulders and nest in low

branches.

It feels a feeble ceremony; we know

this clutch of eggs may be the last. Their

innocence is threadbare in our hands.

We sip red wine and pass around

a joint.

The kids are all together

in the shed—their budding, gangling bodies

sprawled on busted lounges; they’re playing

truth or dare and strumming hard on out

of tune guitars. This tinfoil ritual has lost

its lustre.

Hungry now for salt, they seek

a darker trail, plunging their hands

into crevices, feeling for velvet.

Hoping to claim a creature as pungent

as their own strong scent.

A.F.

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