Pinewood

The Weekend Australian - Review - - Books - Peter Rose

One day, be­fore the dec­i­mal age, the grim lit­tle in­cin­er­a­tor near the en­trance to our school — usu­ally joy­less and un­vis­ited, some­thing to be pelted in boy­dom’s sportive games or shel­tered be­hind when ar­dour was a mys­tery and hid­den­most — sud­denly gave up its buried bul­lion, shone there with what it had con­cealed, and all the class, act­ing on a ru­mour and newly wise to lu­cre, grubbed among the ash-heap, dug and dug and dug all morn­ing, goug­ing shilling af­ter sor­did coin, un­til we were sated and stilled, un­til we went back to our coloured maps, pock­ets filled with smut­tings of the gods.

March 22-23, 2014

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