In My Father’s Coat
His coat speaks the same language
as a thin younger man
walking in cold air
far beyond the black line of trees
wrapped in the lining
of his thin young coat
satin warming his bones
and circling his shoulders
done up to his neck
with that last stiff button
thinking of every mud filled ditch
his angular legs had crossed
childhood stretched like the skin
of a drum over the wound of himself
his father’s judgement still in his ears
pale hands deep in his pockets
raucous flashes of egg thieving crows
mourned his harsh landscape
perhaps it was now he unbuttoned
his coat and invited the blue night in
on a lost horizon a faraway train
rattled uncomprehendingly fast
dragging the future along
there was no turning back
no soft dawn or twinkling lights
carrying a suitcase with nothing inside
he was one step away from us
crumpled, torn in the lining
praying into the emptiness
cursing the dark holed sky.
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