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Mushroom Picking
In the cool of an autumn morning
my father and his friend,
Jimmy Kerin, would go
mushroom picking in paddocks
way out past the last suburban fence.
I would tag along not to pick
but feel the freedom of open land
stretching as far as the eye could see
and for the pleasure of the ride.
I would sit in the back seat
of Mr Kerin’s 1950's Skoda, taking
in the smell of the leather
and laying out along its length
like a ferried prince.
I can remember the wet, green
paddocks, the cold dew being
flipped up to coat the back
of my bare legs as I walked.
Then, seeing a carpet of white crowns
pushing up through the short grass,
plump eruptions catching
the morning sun that got my Dad
and Mr Kerin excited and set them off
decapitating the tallest with their kitchen
knives. They soon would each have
a bucket full, some mushroom heads
as big as Dad's hand.
That evening the ritualized meal
would be acted out. Dad sitting
at the table waiting, Mum frying up
the mushrooms in a cast iron pan
then making the juices into a thick
buttery gravy. It was a celebration
with Dad voicing his pleasure
on downing each savored mouthful.
Mum and us kids would look on,
none of us could stomach the taste
of fungi and instead, tucked into
tomato soup and toast.
Such simple memories seem
to cling onto life as if sensing
autumn, stirring deep in the self's soil
to poke their heads up here.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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