Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled into the middle of the sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house
(grumbling to itself
about the possums in the roof)
wearing our quiet faces.
At their door we'd halt:
eyes wide,
fingers at scrunched up lips,
and then advance,
wincing
at the door handle's squeak.
Child soldiers
on early morning patrol,
we'd reach their bed,
a vast expanse of
rumpled sheets and
sprawled limbs.
In a sudden rush we'd clamber aboard
to be pulled sleepily into their arms.
The sun painted the nearby sea,
the rosellas sang for the morning, and
our ship sailed towards dawn.
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