Tidal
At the top of the tide the float pauses, rising and falling
on river ripples, bobs slowly in the swell, goes under.
The angler isn’t fooled, knows the ways of water and fish.
He waits, the low sun like flame on the surface.
At last the float begins its moon walk to the sea,
upright and nodding, a stately process, until interrupted
by a sudden plunge into the green darkness.
He waits, waits, then whips the rod a foot or two—
just enough: a barb imbeds in the soft flesh
of the luderick’s gasping mouth. The cane rod
bends back on itself, the line taut, the fish frantic with life,
with death waiting in a net that scoops it drowning
into air. Into the cool evening the moon rises,
the tide floats down to the sea. The angler leaves the river,
walks in darkness towards home, seen by all except
the campers in their van who haven’t switched on their lights.
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