Holland’s Nadir

Holland’s Nadir

Men around a submarine

moored in Sydney Harbour

close to the end of wartime

showed us below, down into

their oily mesh-lit gangway

of bunks atop machines.

In from the country, we

weren’t to know our shillings

bought them cigars and thread

for what remained of Holland’s Glory:

uniforms, odd rescued aircraft

and a clutch of undersea boats

patrolling from Fremantle. The men’s

country was still captive, their great

Indies had seen them ousted,

their slaves from centuries back

were still black, and their Queen

was in English exile.

The only ripostes still open

to them were torpedoes

and their throaty half‑

American-sounding language.

Speaking a luckier one

we set off home then. Home

and all that word would mean

in the age of rebirthing nations

which would be my time.

Les Murray