Moreland Road

My great grandmother's California bungalow was
filled with dark corners and mystery,
Victorian tapestries of Arab scenes and
tall vases depicting Chinese landscapes,
bric-a-brac scattered across every surface
from every corner of the globe,
a Leipzig piano in the front lounge
serenaded by heavy couches,
a grandfather clock in the hall.

The stained glass windows in the
front double doors dimly lit the hall,
and the two bedrooms were dark,
places only for sleep with chamber pots
under the bed and dark wood wardrobes
for clothes.

The kitchen lived in an earlier century,
although a gas stove graced the the window
next to the sink and a formica 50s table
stood proudly on vinyl tiles.
The chair abutting the wall boasted a potty

The fireplace in the sitting room was modern
and burned briquettes,
magic castles of red and orange flame...
there was even a small black and white TV where I
was allowed to stay up late on a Friday night and watch
Deadly Ernest's B grade horror movies,
lying on an ancient chaise lounge while
my great grandmother
sat in her chair and smiled.

The back door led to a porch which hung over
a long backyard littered with sheds and outbuildings,
a double dunny and woodshed half way to the back fence
faced sheds housing treasures acquired and discarded over decades,
seaman's chests
cylinder phonograms,
boxes of cylinder recordings,
old bikes,
rusted tools, saws and scythes,
dead hand mowers blades long dulled,
books eaten by silverfish and moths,
treasures to a young boy's imagination.

My great grandmother's California bungalow
in Moreland Road West Brunswick
was long ago knocked down and replaced by
cheap townhouses,
the front verandah bulldozed and
privet hedges razed.

Memories float into the clouds with the asbestos
dust of loss.