The Will
Stones of the cemetery, wind off the sea,
a preacher intoning the old poetry –
words from the Book of Common Prayer.
Next to the graveside, in salt-laden air,
a dozen survivors in grey mourning suits
all looking down at their sand-speckled boots.
“We have come to remember your late Cousin John,”
the clergyman started; but could not go on.
Except for the sea-sounds, there was silence until
a woman’s voice muttered, “Who’s seen the will?”
A shallow depression in dry sandy ground
was carved with a spade, which then passed around
along with a casket of powdery ash.
The voice was still hissing: “He had lots of cash.”
Had anyone thought of the fate of his soul
as the bone-coloured powder was tipped in the hole?
A once-living body, and its badly-cut hair,
downcast expression and permanent glare,
reduced to a heap which might well remind
anyone else of the grey dirt which lined
a used-up vacuum cleaner bag; mortal dust
which once swelled with breathing. “I’ll speak to the Trust.”
Sandstone and granite, and overgrown paths;
marble memorials shiny as baths;
and sparse vegetation except for some flowers
wilting in jam jars. At least they’re not ours,
unlike the name that will be carved on his tomb.
Most of that life had been spent in one room
while the Trust account paid for a few simple needs.
Gravel plots under the spring’s spreading weeds;
salt breeze and cold light angled over the hill:
“You will all pay if I’m not in the will.”
That voice again. All of us wanted to hide,
being the cousins on his father’s side,
from his mother’s hard-faced adopted niece.
It would be her, interrupting the peace.
Her and her lawyers. If he left an estate
equal in height to the cemetery gate
her legal advisers would make it their task
to erode what was left to the size of the cask.
But none of us spoke, and she then turned away.
“Apart from the wind, it’s a beautiful day,”
someone else said as we walked to the cars,
past gravestones, and gravel, and sad empty jars.
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