Unwelcome Neighbours

I've been writing poems for about two years now, and one of the first poems I had published was Unwelcome Neighbours.  It's about one of my favourite animals: the grey-headed flying-fox (a species of fruit bat). 

Flying-foxes live in colonies, and in Melbourne the colony used to live in the Botanic Gardens, until there were complaints about them damaging trees by eating and roosting in them.  The solution was to move the entire colony to another park, a feat that had never been undertaken before, and I thought it was remarkable.  

Researchers, government officers and park rangers worked together to use a combination of deterrents (a sound that the bats didn't like) and lures (delicious-smelling fruit) to shift the colony east.  The bats never made it to their final destination, instead settling in Yarra Bend park, which somebody decided was a good enough outcome.

Thousands of bats still live in the Yarra Bend colony, and they're adorable.  Sometimes I take my 5-year-old daughter to visit them.  They're fun to watch and listen to.  I even like their smell; it reminds me of summer, when there's soft fruit on suburban trees for the bats to eat.

Some people don't like the bats; they're seen as inconvenient.  At one point the local state MP tried to drum up outrage, saying the colony should be moved, but the campaign didn't get much traction.

In my mind, Unwelcome Neighbours is set in or around that wealthy area of inner-eastern Melbourne.  It was published by my own council, the City of Darebin, in n-SCRIBE magazine. 

As you will probably guess, the poem is not only about bats.  It's about the selfishness of humanity and aggression towards difference.

Bats are total weirdos, and I love that about them.

Unwelcome Neighbours

On the living room walls are photos of

Stella cuddling a koala and

Oliver laughing under a flock of rosellas.

On the fridge is

a bright orange clownfish magnet and

a letter from the Australian government

with a kangaroo and emu standing proudly at the top.

On the dresser is

an abalone shell and

a few coins: a lyrebird, an echidna and a platypus.

 

Russell peers out the window.

Those blasted bats, he mutters

They’re eating my nectarines.

Put a net over the tree, says Estelle.

We don’t want them in our yard anyway.

Bats can give you AIDS. It’s not safe for the kids.

Is it true that bats suck your blood? says Oliver.

That’s vampires, says Stella.

Close enough, says Russell

and googles where to buy a net.

 

In nearby streets, residents list their concerns:

They’re too noisy. They’re threatening.

They’re dirty. They smell bad.

They take up too much space.

They’re not consistent with the local

character of this neighbourhood.

We don’t want neighbours like them.

They should live somewhere else.

And they’re destroying the trees.

We have to protect the trees, especially the native trees.

Native species are what makes Australia special.

 

The grey-headed flying-foxes fly overhead.

Stella sits on the back step

imagining life before her house was there:

just eucalypts, wattles and

lilly pilly berries for bats to eat.

You bats, she thinks. Too furry for a bird;

not enough legs for a proper mammal;

sneaking around at night like thieves.

No wonder no one likes you.

You gotta fit in, don’t you know?

 

Stella ducks under the net, grabs an armful of nectarines,

quietly emerges, and hides them in the lilly pilly tree.

Looking up at the darkening sky

she whispers:

Don’t tell Dad.