We sometimes speak of the trellis,
where everything was cool in summer,
the house in the orchard; named Coolamatong,
“place of cool water”.

To a six year old boy it was all adventure.

The passionfruit vines plump with purple promise.
The twin pecan trees, laying down their arsenal.
The hessian bag, for me to saddle the engine bonnet of a Massey Ferguson,
facing grandfather as he sweated through his silver moustache and straw hat.
The concrete water tank we named, “the swimming pool”.
The dam at the bottom of the orchard: dark, cool and deep.
Big green frogs, skins glistening; calling and croaking at night.
And Grandmother Jeana’s marmalade; full rinds and heavy syrup.

I loved the trellis. Covered in dense green Wisteria
branches as thick as your arm.
Its ancestry in the leaves,
in the firmament of twisting fingers
holding open tiny spaces for night and daytime starlight.

The trellis: a cool green blanket
under which we might comfortably spend the rest of our lives.
A place where I might wonder with grandparent’s love
as we viewed the world through the same window.

A safety never repeated.

After my grandparents died, the orchard was sold,
we heard the new owners chopped it down.

When we speak of Coolamatong, we often mention the trellis.