Of possums and mangoes

The mango tree

Last night at about 2 am, right after the sixth run of emergency sirens had wailed up Vulture St, the resident possum came galavanting across the corrugated iron roof wearing her hobnails boots. Cranky with the world for keeping me awake I figured I might as well get up and say hello. What else did I have to do at that time of the morning? Even the ghosts had headed off for a nap…

Peering out the window I could see the dark sharp crouched on the end of the shed roof. A possum has been in residence for some time now. Three years ago when we cleared out Dad’s workshop one sat in the rafters a couple of metres away from us and kept a watchful eye open as we sorted through a life time’s collection of treasures. She was an old possum, fur a bit patchy and grey, her long tail more bristles than brush.

Last night, under an overcast glowing sky, this possum looked less frail, more spritely, more self-assured. Gen Y  has moved in. Who could blame her? There’s a cosy dry shed for a possum palace. A wonderful playground of angled roofs for jumping and sliding on and, most importantly, there’s a mango tree. It’s an old tree that bears sporadically. This year it’s excelled itself. The fruit are dripping off the branches – possum heaven! With a flying leap the possum followed the well worn trail and launched herself into the tree. A screech and rustling above made her pause, but not even flying foxes were going to stop her. She disappeared into the foliage. The remains of her feast were scattered on the grass this morning.

I hope she didn’t get tummy ache from all that green fruit….