Robyn Lance
She made slow progress
down the darkened hall,
a cut rose past its prime,
head heavy, bloom faded.
Lift … push … shuffle …
the frame guided
by hands half hidden
in fingerless gloves.
In the dutiful times of war
a suitor was repelled
lest he deflect her from
the patriarch.
Struggling to comply
with the unwritten plot
she left a job of some repute
to tend an aging father,
washing the daily fallout
from incontinence,
feeding the failing flesh and minds
of father then mother.
At the crossroads of their release
she chose the bedside
of the aunts, one by one,
selflessness expected.
A generation dwindled
and died. Her job was done
but the future dwelt
in darkened rooms
with a two bar radiator,
doors closed
and the keys on a ribbon
round her neck.
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