THE HUNTSMAN
- Apr 24
- 1 min read
By Johanna Sargeant
When the tarmac steams and the children stand
in the centre of the street with faces up and tongues out
and uniforms stuck to rounded bellies,
when the road becomes an ochre river,
with toddlers stomping and thwomping
and lying in the torrent,
mothers’ fingers fishing leaves
and cicada skins and gecko tails
out of tangled hair at bath-time,
when oldies on verandahs with cups of black Moccona,
yell to be heard as the parched lawn drinks
in gluttonous gulps and the cracked earth swells
like the belly of a milk-drunk baby,
when all eyes turn outwards and upwards,
the huntsman awakens.
Open doors and
flapping flyscreens and
yawning windows and
cracked vents and
unplugged drains.
He scurries behind couches and
inside cupboards and
under beach towels and
between the slats of a Venetian blind.
He waits for eyes to close and breath to slow.
Do you hear him shoosh across the carpet?
Eight hairy legs and eight hairy feet
waiting for me to sleep
so that he can
finally
climb
into my ear.