Like olive skin and the tilt of my ring fingers,
I get a knack for crazy schemes from you.
I was ten when we moved to the new house,
built from scratch and stark in a grassless yard.
Six weeks in you said: We need a lawn.
That night all five of us drove to the coast
to steal turf from the Golden Beach Golf Course.
Like so many transgressions,
it’s outrageous only in retrospect.
We took the ute; me and Mum up front with you
the boys in the back with picks and spades,
all laid flat beneath a blue tarpaulin.
Splintered and whingeing, we dug all night
and squares of turf hung in our arms
like freshly dead dogs, surprising
with their heft and flex, and the warmth
of the earth at the roots.
We left a void like a burial plot. They’ve got
so much, you said, they’ll hardly miss it.
Back home, we laid out squares like patchwork,
tended them for months until
the roots took, the seams faded.
We called the lawn our own and forgot
it had ever been otherwise.