Gladioli staked, tied and tall
orange-throated in friable soil
in front of wide weatherboard
gaudy early summer glory


our uncle back from Korea
snaps photos on his box brownie
to give us little black and white 
pictures with crinkle-cut edges


silk tigers stalk our front room
mum’s fake pearls housed in
black lacquered boxes from
Seoul, or maybe from Japan


K Force and J Force, brothers
in both places with albums
full of pictures of post bomb
Hiroshima and geisha girls


home bearing gifts for grandma
my mother and her sisters, we
kids unaware our own father
home from a different war


mowers, the smell of petrol
grass clippings into catchers
a postman’s whistle, the whine
of a blade on concrete 


tennis mid road if you like
cows grazing on chamolly
mushrooms in the back
paddock for picking


the peanut butter scent
of the Harlequin Glorybower
the bush between us and
the next door neighbour


their son who fell from the sky
taking photos from a tiny plane
that swooped too low for
the perfect shot in peacetime


our first local tragedy 
before the taxi driver who
was murdered and our
brother who killed himself


the gladioli fooled us with 
their orange-throated glory
triumphant post war as if


this

         was
                     it