Money

I hoard it at all times

then take it out in September

when coins have a pencil-lead complexion

and glare is a hall of mirrors

in the brown grass, angling

the Queen into sunny pairs

in my blinded eyes, her metal necks

on the tips of their toes

which are my turning fingers.

A gold dollar does none of this—

it is not even gold but pretends it is,

flat as a lid and dirty

as the paddock’s clay.

Across the rifling air it doesn’t

go with the throw and somersault

through apple trees the way notes

unfold, purple and blue, and finish

their flight in white blossom.

I have not squandered them this year

through too many hands.

When I pick them up

they are just the same as when

the wind took them on its invisible horse

broncing and falling further eastward.

One might land in the creek

but the creek gives it back

in the palm of its sand.

It is not even wet, not being mere paper.

Once a rat ate one

but it was only a dream.

Still, I count them—

fives, tens, twenties—

and am happy the sum is right.

I envy my neighbour’s bigger ration,

but he won’t play in this way.

He stays indoors. I invite him

to watch. His no is final.

He is loyal to his house

and paints his stairs.

Craig Sherborne’s Tree Place was shortlisted for the 2015 Miles Franklin Award, and The Amateur Science of Love won the 2012 Melbourne Prize for Best Writing. His latest novel is Off the Record (Text).