Without shoes on

I spent my childhood without shoes on. Only when I laced up my black clodhoppers for school did I feel the studious weight of leather and lace dragging me down, and my mood sinking with it.

As I dragged weary limbs towards class – my holiday elevation plummeted into those ungainly soles.

Struggling sharp edges of grass, determinedly heaving up through the concrete paths made my feet itch inside their off-white cotton socks. I would run my hands through the wild long grass that pushed through the school fence, at lunch time; grass cuts crisscrossing my dry hands.

The bubblers would cool the stinging, and quench my thirst, from the shimmering Queensland noon heat. I never have dealt well with extremes; I still don’t.