Orange stand

Picture by Tim Mossholder

There are no lemons here like in the cartoons.

But Old Orange Tree sits out the back, surrounded

by knee-high grass, tins – we think it’s perfect.

Oranges sprawl across the bench,

rolling onto the gravel road. Under the hot sun today

they’ll sag like tanned crones.

You, the younger of us, have decided

to try cutting an orange with a spoon. Gritting teeth.

There’s a noise from a grunting Cortina.

The driver waves, then whisks away. Our home-baked

sign was down the whole time. We sip our juice.

I down a cup and say, ‘Needs sugar.’

At home, Orange Tree

stares down through the lounge room window.

Our dad watches his static TV box,

half asleep under a mantelpiece with

nine unused brass candlesticks.

Dashingly.

Outside, our arms are crossed.

We consider what this farmland has become:

Orange Tree is resilient, and

lucky – the peaches toppled, quick and ripe,

in one great succulent storm.

It is all we have, and It binds us here.

Years later, the house is still standing

in its wasted glory, splintered deck…

With rind and dirt lacing our hands,

we open the front door, readying ourselves to return.

Look past Dad. Us and Orange Tree gaze

at the windowsill, where the phonograph rests.

Its metal, lying in the sun, has

become a kiln. Still, we switch it on.

Consider the automaton-mouthpiece,

the way it chews through Great-Grandad’s words, dis-

torting, rasping out, a voice calling to the farm

with traces of lament and gold tobacco grains.

We listen to him: ‘Make your orange stand.’

Because Its rustling leaves have spoken.

There’s nothing else for it.

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