'Amberley Lane’

Dear George

The bramble covered apron no longer tugs at rutted vehicle tracks on Amberley Lane.  Gone are those robust prickly arms that once reached ever forward in search of stone morsels, more deservingly so, on those weeks following the monthly turmoil of invading boots and finely sharpened slashers. I wonder what became of those pajama clothed young men who worked so tirelessly in winter sleet without relief, compliant or kindness.

There no longer exists a willow lined stream slowly meandering towards the far paddocks where we had gathered acorn ammo while learning not to cough from mixed herbs and dad’s eagerly scavenged discloured and discarded pipe tobacco.  Those seasons of exploring our playground in tones of lushness, great open fields bathed in sunlit waves of barley grass moving in tune with nature’s whims. Remember the larks, always chattering to the wind giving up our tumbled whereabouts as we flattened tracks of magic mazes.

The raw scars from Amberley Lane farm’s scraped and carted topsoil appear to have healed though, albeit under a poultice of concrete pads, bricks and scaffolding. Inevitably the land will eventually weep I suppose, from having to remain tightly bandaged with forever infill housing and tar seal, all sold to families whose kids will forever remain indoors, completely oblivious to what Amberley Lane had once been. Like the bramble, no trees exist here now.

I’m sure our tree hut would not have given up waiting for us to come home, nor willingly disposed of our candles and slingshots, bottle top collection, or our tattered magazines and string. It’s all gone George, I’m sorry George, everything we cared about, has been lost and scattered to the wind meaninglessly, along with the centerfold girl of October 1968.

Your loving brother

David Amberley