Give me back the smell of pencils

Monday morning in their boxes

the mucilage and ink in inkwells
the Mercator’s above the blackboard

with half the world in red

give me back that ‘firm but just’
preceptor of my childhood

who filled our lives with copperplate

and knew precisely where he stood
give me back the flap of canvas

the tall ships southward under sail

give me back the quiet explorers
heading for the centre

accompanied by faithful Jacky

searching for an inland sea
give me back my heroines

Grace Darling, Florence Nightingale,

Mrs Chisolm with her girls
give me back old Cobb & Co

the miracles of Bendigo

where everyone made good it seems
and Ben Hall too to lend some colour

give me back the picturesque

the fading warrior with spear
staring always at the sunset

and thoughtful on one leg

give me back the wars offshore
so notably conducted

give me back the nineteen fifties

where once we all ran small garages
or kept a corner store

and Mr Menzies lived forever

and each night loyal behind our fences
we’d turn the lights out right on ten.