When I first met Les Murray, I knew nothing of his towering intelligence or reputation as Australia’s stand-alone poet of international importance. He was simply a man coming to dinner. He stood in the doorway of our house with its narrow dimly lit passageway. He filled the space, a big man, but, never-the-less, he came lightly elegant, walking on air, towards me. Up close, he was reminiscent of the Medici boy angels, until you saw the eyes, small dark with curiosity, a touch of misery, kept at bay. I saw him take account of the fragile chairs around the big…