The Dunny out the Back

The dunny out the back.

It played its own small part.

The dunny out the back

 holds a large place in my heart.

The dunny out the back is

more than memory.                              

Round the dunny out the back

my past wafts endlessly.

From the back veranda steps

we had to walk a cricket pitch.

We had a chain to pull at first,

then a button at our fingertips.

The walls were made from strong red brick.

The floor a cool concrete.

A wood door painted deep jade green.

It was really quite elite.

It wasn’t always so very flash.

We used to have one way, way out back.

It had no flush and you can be sure

we always left open that dunny door

with its squares of newspaper cut to size.

And in summer the buzzing of big blow flies.

We kids didn’t care.  The backyard was wide.

And the door made a perfect wicket.

Cricket, football, trucks in sand.

Skipping ropes while hand in hand

with cousins, siblings, childhood friends,

we played from daybreak to day’s end.

Sometimes even after dark

on birthdays, Christmas, summer nights.

Exciting times when one is small

playing round the dunny door.

It could be scary, it could be tough.

A red-back once bit someone’s butt.

And sometimes snakes basked on the step

enjoying the heat the concrete kept.

Late night movies dark and dim.

Aliens, creatures, spaceships in.

Not at all scared, but just to be sure

have someone guard the dunny door.

Dog named Polar, one of us.

Leave the door open or else there’s a fuss.

Thought when we sat it was especially to

give him the pats he thought were his due.

Inquisitive cats stretching and seeking,

Around the corner their noses peeking.

They wanted to see who was having a sit.

If the door was closed they opened it.

And you know it’s a national tradition,

reading on the throne.

So dad would take the paper

to escape five kids at home.

It was a refuge too for others

to escape to, and to hide.

Pretending they had a job to do

more important than the one inside.

We all had allocated chores

and when it came to sweeping floors

I’d not be seen, I’d not be found.

For the dunny I’d be bound.

After dinner, balmy nights.

Time to dry the forks and knives.

Where’s my brother? You can be sure

he’s behind the dunny door.

It stood much longer than the house

and to anyone not kin,

it may be just an outhouse

with a rusty roof of tin.

But to us it is a monument;

an icon and a symbol

of times long gone and times well spent.

And of times when we were nimble.

The dunny out the back.

It played its own small part.

The dunny out the back holds a

large place in my heart.

The dunny out the back is

more than memory.                              

Round the dunny out the back

my past wafts endlessly.