Pamela Leach: ‘Bone Memory’
Bone Memory
These lichen-dappled rocks are worth
a daily visit. Their ochres, oranges
and ruffled baby blue are like
drips of paint drooling off a palette.
The river beams, a silver gelatin photo,
or puddle of mercury from a broken thermometer.
I steep in its poetry. Yachts are tethered
in Cornelian Bay’s blinding chrome, miniatures
in profile, throw-backs to pre-digital
sailing days. Someone wants to sell a boathouse,
the periwinkle one with a writing table
by the door, oyster shells a pearly parquet
in the shallows beneath. It costs more
than a home—character is dear. But this light
is so clean, no price is worthy of it.
Verse would gurgle, surge from here.
There are murmurs of an ebbing tide,
perfect lapping beneath the floorboards
so early in the day. I pin that sound
to my notebook for later, for my pretend
toasty afternoon of writing in the boathouse.
Wood smoke from the stovepipes of these
cottages on stilts smells sweet despite
my climate worries. Perhaps I stem from
a clan of fiery Celts, carriers of flame—
earthen swatches of the sun. These long nights
of midwinter and pink frost on each rigid blade
drill deep into the memory within my bones.
Pamela Leach
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.
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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
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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
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2 mins