A prison, long brick
block, oblong
windows barred by wood;
a trail of timber lock-ups
hard against the bush.

Child of the fifties,
a ten pound innocent,
strange pale breed.
English girl among ironbark trees.

And my stature stunted,
family wretched.
my mum’s best effort
a patched serge tunic.

I wore blouses the colour
of old people’s hair,
and carried a suitcase
mildewed and small that
sat like a swear word
in the row in the hall.

Lunch was bread
soaked through with jam
refugeed in a brown paper bag.

Ah, but the bottled milk,
(unwanted like me)
warmed by the sun
through eucalypt leaves,
it came free.

So I grew strong in Australia.

Jeanne Squires

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Jeanne Squires