Speechless
His mongrel clothes kept me at bay,
mismatched and snapping in the wind.
I smelled urine, saw holes unravelling
in sleeves too short for winter.
I shook my umbrella. He put
plastic bags on wet pavement,
stretched for the ache in his back.
At least I knew that pain.
He would push on in time:
I would make my next appointment,
regretting all the distance between us.
He did not notice me or my regret;
this hunched McCubbin swag-man,
staring silent at his version of the day.
I would not figure in his days.
A bridge of possibility was there:
I had missed it in the rain,
not crossed it on that windy winter’s day.
Guilt dogged me like a hunting pair:
mine, for holding back my words,
ours, for causing him to block us out.
I’ll speak next time I meet his kind.
Madam: Archbishop Fisher (July-August 2024) does not resist the attacks on his church by the political, social or scientific atheists and those who insist on not being told what to do.
Aug 29 2024
6 mins
To claim Aborigines have the world's oldest continuous culture is to misunderstand the meaning of culture, which continuously changes over time and location. For a culture not to change over time would be a reproach and certainly not a cause for celebration, for it would indicate that there had been no capacity to adapt. Clearly this has not been the case
Aug 20 2024
23 mins
A friend and longtime supporter of Quadrant, Clive James sent us a poem in 2010, which we published in our December issue. Like the Taronga Park Aquarium he recalls in its 'mocked-up sandstone cave' it's not to be forgotten
Aug 16 2024
2 mins