Standing on the banks of the Barwon
wind off the water
into our faces
theirs freckled, mine tanned;
I was always the black sheep
to their red-haired Viking.
They fish
I play
flinging a neighbour’s borrowed rod
back and forth
until
the tip slips free and sails
into the water, a gulp
and it descends beneath.
I know there will be words
even a clip around the ear
but for a moment
that flung tip
caught my heart as well as a hand
catching bright Excalibur.
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