For My Brother

Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled in the middle of sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house,
listening to the possums on 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.