Demurely, Bruny
Brunette or shocking white, these wallabies
have their own special nook nearby,
under that blackwood.
Why just there,
I ask myself: no particular foliage
has given a meaning to the spot.
Something about bone-dry shadow under those boughs
appears to murmur clan or family. Yes,
I know that sounds kind of patronising,
but when these animals go through their routines
we can see a social order clear as day.
First, and utterly visible, there's
the milkwhite mother with joey in pouch,
moth-brown in hue, as are all
the rest of this little clan, one of them plainly
a mum too, with her teenager.
Some littoral nights, three tidy wallabies
sleep beside Blanche under the darksome tree,
loitering there — if we don't jerk into view.
Suddenness sends them bounding off downhill,
except for the white one.
Yes, she's at home.
You could say she's got the game by the balls,
a calming mother, white as vanilla snow.
Chris Wallace-Crabbe is an Australian poet and emeritus professor in the Australian Centre, University of Melbourne.