After school, we raced home
to share a mango, one half each-
you let me have the seed.
Later, arms and wrists sticky
with juice, I planted it
in the middle of the yard,
so we could all admire it.
I dug with my hands
and a pointy rock. Dirt packed
under my nails. We pushed
the seed into the ground, covered
it up and sprinkled it with the hose.
Had a water fight just for luck.
Anna Jacobson
I found her at school one day, hidden
under one of the classrooms. I climbed
in after her and she let me stroke
her fur. I carried her into the light
and her shadow stretched
across the grass.
Her owners were relieved.
She’d been missing three weeks.
They came to pick her up
and as I let her go, I imagined a cat
of my own. A cat called Nora.
Anna Jacobson
Under a canopy of fig trees
we pass a busker, watch his hands dance
over the surface of the drum and hear
music— soft, warm, bright.
Honey sounds that take us past the
food stalls and hot Afghani bread filled
with leeks and onion. I follow behind a girl
who carries a white Persian cat. Its pampered
face peers over her shoulder at me.
Anna Jacobson
We scrabble over sun
warmed rocks and peer into
rock pools. Small crabs scuttle
sideways, sea anemones wave
and we climb on further- feet slip
in rubber thongs and we glimpse
a squishy sea cucumber, silkworm
soft. In another pool lies a blue starfish.
We race to the ocean to cool our skin,
water so clear we see a large bream flick
its tail and swim off into the depths.
Anna Jacobson
Silent as a mosquito whine just beyond hearing.
A lizard lies languid, tastes the air with its thick blue tongue.
A goanna runs up a gum tree, claws digging into bark.
A scrub turkey dashes across the path.
I sit on the timber seat halfway up the mountain,
careful of the red-back’s nest underneath.
Leaves dance with the first drops of rain. Birds call out.
A tree dribbles sap, sticky as honey. The downpour starts-
I am drenched in the forest’s earthy scent.
Anna Jacobson
Icy Fruit
On a stinking hot day in grade four,
our teacher read us a poem
about icy watermelon.
She tormented us with its words.
Sweat ran down
our backs—
we groaned, thinking
of the cold fruit in our hands,
the juice running down our chins.
Instead we sat cross-legged
on the itchy carpet floor,
gathering pins and needles.
Anna Jacobson
Australian Children’s Poetry 