I recall a walk along the creek
interest waning as a child’s will, constrained
by the aeons required by one’s elders
to ponder ancestry and heritage
of a single, chance, velvety khaki leaf –
and apparently all such leaves and their parents,
at every few creeping paces

I recall that walk along the creek
my mother exclaiming at the beauty
of a flash of red gleaming in the gully below,
intense speculation from these two avid devotees
of our native flora,
my grandmother scrambling down the steep bank
intent, determined, pausing,
“… it’s an empty chip packet”

I recall our walk along the creek,
maybe nine or ten years old,
the bellbirds chiming from their secret places
the scent of the eucalypts
that flash of red –
a blending of childish
senses, morphed
into the adult
perceptions
that remain