Far Flung Seeds

We bump along the dirt road, dust bathing rubber

with a prickle of pebbles. The back of my bare legs

stick to the vinyl seats of the green Ford Zephyr

until we come to his special spot. Pa pulls over and parks

in the messy scrub of gum and sticks next to the track.

He grabs his fishing rod and a box of tackle from the trunk

and heads down to the Wimmera river, brown with the tannins

and oils of eucalypts as it slides through a slice of earth carved 

by erosion and farming. I hop out and close the door.

Pa, we need to lock the car!

He turns and smiles

a stork who steps lightly

— picks over uneven ground

with eyes alert to the smallest joke

and those lips that quirk

at the oddest moment. Like when I, all wide-eyed youth

betray my upbringing with a comment or observation.

He smiles at me, his city-bred granddaughter 

with her mother’s hair

his wife’s eyes 

and her father’s skin.

He never expected

this moment.

He never expected me

— in this place.

He never knew that his seeds

which had flown so far from home

would one day make it back again

and take root in his soil

— a tree in the shape of a girl.