Once, it was said
that to be Australian was to knock on your neighbour’s door
in the heat of January,
offering a cold can and company,
or a patch of lawn,
just because shade is for sharing and trouble too.
We told ourselves –
We are not an intolerant people.
We did not cross the world only to close the gate behind us,
we thought, sun-washed and barefoot on sandstone,
wading into river or ocean – the welcome of open water.
We kept a joke in the mouth, an extra chair at the table,
room for another story,
room for another song.
But somewhere along the way –
flags grew sharper, eyes narrowed,
borders thickened, fences pushed higher.
Scarcity draped itself over us
like another layer of sunburn,
and ugliness crept into our speech,
festering on talkback and ticker tape –
us-and-them, and not enough,
as if the island shrank overnight.
Now, the news says we are hardening,
marching in circles with shrinking hearts –
our compassion spent on tax breaks, our fabled mateship
dissolved in private equity and gated drives.
We claim a history of fairness
then pretend not to see the chain in another’s hand.
But the true spirit
is not the drapery of flags, nor the braying about who belongs.
It does not smirk behind a fence
saying “not you – never you.”
It is not white-knuckled in the pub,
guarding against ghosts
never invited anyway.
We must look hard –
Into the gums and green suburbs,
past the headlines, under the scorched grass;
look into our own shadows in the hot, honest noon.
Because the real Australia is not a fortress
and heritage is not costume.
It was, and can be, the sharing of shade.
Mending broken fences even when they weren’t ours.
Saying yes, there is room – always –
for another story,
another neighbour,
another chance.
