Poetry

Noel King: Patrick

Patrick   The day my son died his mother I held in the crook of my arm; his little body cold on pebbles between us.   We’d let him paddle on the one-inch shore until he caught the swan like it was a moving toy or our cat at home.   We’re split now, his mother and I never had more children, either one.   Sometimes I still climb into the attic, step over the circle of track, sit on my haunches, set the train off, watch it go station by station reaching no destination.   Noel King  

Subscribe to get access to all online articles

Digital Subscription

$68/ YR

Get the latest ideas from Australia’s most insightful writers.

Subscribe

  • Digital Subscription includes
  • Online editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • Printed editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • iPad ready PDF
  • Access to Quadrant Archives
  •  
  •  

Printed & Digital Subscription

$87/ YR

For avid readers of leading ideas
from Australia’s brightest.

Subscribe

  • Printed & Digital Subscription includes
  • Online editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • Printed editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • iPad ready PDF
  • Access to Quadrant Archives
  •  
  •  

Quadrant Patron

$300/ YR

Show your support for Australia’s
most open minded publication.

Subscribe

  • Quadrant Patron includes
  • Online editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • Printed editions of Quadrant Magazine
  • iPad ready PDF
  • Access to Quadrant Archives
  • All new editions of Quadrant Books
  • Exclusive invitations to Quadrant Dinners, book launches and events.