Pocket Knife

I remember waking up on Christmas morning
When my cousins and I ran down to the lounge.
Where the rest of the family were waiting.
I got a pocket knife from my grandfather.
When I went outside its two knives glinted in the rising sun
Like shining stars.
Its sharp arms cut like razors.
A stick-whittler as long as palm’s length with
A bronzed head and a wooden body as smooth as silk.
Countless times I’ve explored the forest on Bruny Island.
And carved my name in trees.
Gone fishing with it.
Watching my uncle sharpen it.
I will never let it be stolen,
I will never give it away,
I will keep it in my family forever.
Some people see it as a trashy antique
But I think of him as a friend.