When I was the age my son was then...

I set off on a similar journey to a somewhat larger island.

I was just eighteen years old in August 1969
when I set sail from Melbourne on the Sitmar liner Fairstar
to England via the Panama Canal.

I was only six months out of high school
but already I had been arrested three times
and been technically convicted once
for daring in one way or another to protest
against the brutal war in Vietnam.

And now I was also a draft dodger
choosing exile over commitment
because really I was just a kid
with a passion for poetry.

On that early Spring evening
as my ship manoevred through the waters of the Bay
I watched the skyline of Melbourne recede into the distance
and knew with all the certainty of youth
that my life was only just beginning.

My father had seen me off at the docks
but would not stay to see the ship slowly
pull away festooned with streamers which one by one
would snap and sever that last link between the adventurer
and those they left behind.

For my birthday he had given me
a watch engraved with my name
and had also invited me to choose
from his collection of old wallets
one which would suit me
now that I had become a man.

Within that sheaf of leather I kept the folded photo
of my father and mother on their wedding day
which he had also just bequeathed to me
for what purpose I could not then quite fathom.

They stand there in a semi-formal pose:
my father in his best suit, the fingers of his right hand
at his side nervously clenched, those of his left completely surrounding
my mother's right hand which he holds stiffly
at a point just below his left rib cage.

My mother is petite and glowing.
Her high cheek bones shine above her smile.
She wears a wide bonnet framing her hair
which must have been permed for the occasion
into large thick curls which extend almost
to the collar of the tunic
embellished with a sea star-like pattern
which she wears atop her plain knee-length skirt.

Behind them in the photographer's studio
a set of floor to ceiling curtains have been slightly
pulled apart to reveal a bare white wall.

It is as if they are about to bid farewell
to turn around and step into that naked whiteness,
to begin to colour it, to animate it with shared experience.

But there is something troubling and tawdry
about the faded mock Persian rug on which
they stand, not least of which is the kink
which has been left to rise quite mountainously
between their two sets of feet.

On the back of the photo my mother had inscribed
in her flowery hand: With our Love ~ Betty & Arthur.
Beneath her dedication my father has now printed for me...

WALKER
22 MEADOWCROFT AVENUE
OFF SKIPPERS LANE
ESTON

This is my mother's new surname and her address.

My father tells me he does not mind if I set out to find her
to return to her at last...


I watch the lights of the city
twinkling now on the dark horizon.

I have entered the dream of my future.