Live Encounters Poetry & Writing July 2026
Childhood Memory, poems by David Atkinson.
Childhood Memory
For Isla (aged 3½)
I watch you race back and forth,
back and forth, through the playground,
radiant smile, runaway elation.
Our routine, multicoloured ball
on the slippery dip with the savour,
ambience of parkland grass.
You make believe in the two dolls houses,
across the street and in our lounge room,
you clasp the gilded dolls and toys.
You explain your Christmas books,
tactile pop-ups. Eager episodes
of Bluey, the focus of your face.
Joy when George the kitten appears,
his determination as he swings
away on the crossbar.
A sparkling smile as you run.
You may not recall today; will you
remember eyes of love?
Kite
I.M. Ian N.
You came and taught me how to build a kite,
my spirits soaring with it to the sun,
a stirring sight.
Array of struts and string and glue as one,
with nothing imprecise or left undone.
My far-flung impulse running wild and free.
Designed and built, your baffling gift to me.
I wondered how the winds would make it climb.
Our country climate kept the squalls away,
with endless time
for flight remote from hindrance; thus each day
my role confirmed to be a child at play.
Your well-judged skill ensured the risks were less
than could be overcome with your finesse.
The trick to keep the cord restrained and taut,
to watch and guide with vigilance and flair.
The breezes fought,
I held against a chancy rip or tear
you then repaired with diligence and care.
I learnt to lead and harness, not be pinned,
by uncontrolled inflections in the wind.
An engineer transposed to rural life,
a different way to use your razor brain,
a needle knife
applied to dream beyond the dull, to train
your callow nephew for his lasting gain.
We looped and leapt as though in outer space.
I still recall your tender easy grace.
The joy of freedom running as a boy,
the kite in tow and weightless way up high,
not just a toy.
You showed me how to struggle, to reply
with faith and vision, not debating why.
My reaching eyes still focus on the height,
recalling how I stared with such delight.
Cud
Heads bowed as if in reverence,
tactile tongues wrapped like gloves
around grass, pastoral farmland.
Knapsack of each leathery mouth
contains and chews cud,
milk for the calf.
Over the paddocks advance
of a squall, livestock turn about,
haunches to the gale, bovine instinct.
The smell of stippling drizzle.
Cumulus cloud, brumous blanket
screens the south like phlegm.
Offspring will be taught,
imprinted with skills of survival.
Each generation exists in turn
as it is destined to do.
It is claimed that some species
have sentience, a point of view.
Are ruminants able to ruminate,
to think through the nature
of their lives and to communicate?
Whenever cows congregate, heads lowered
and almost touching, the community appears
to converse as if speaking in tongues.
© David Atkinson
David Atkinson is a Sydney poet; his poems have been published widely in Australia, the USA and the UK. David’s awards include First prizes in the Ros Spencer Poetry Prize, the FAW Jean Stone Poetry Award and the Whitsunday Heart Poetry Prize. David has published three collections: “The Ablation of Time” (2018), “Strands and Ripples” (2021) and “Natural Light” (2024). He convenes the Pennant Hills Poets workshop group in Sydney. David is a poet of memory, the human condition and the natural world. See: www.davidatkinson.com.au