Victoria Field: Three Poems
Clearing
This is the price of light: chainsaws squealing,
usual paths closed off with health and safety notices
from Euroforest. Yes, I can see further
through all that air—trees on the horizon instead
of a hand’s breadth away, solitary standards with space
for every leaf to drink the light. But I miss the dense
silver flicker of birches, thickets for the nightingales.
They will return, I know. Meanwhile the earth’s in tatters
waiting for green shoots, a million small things to grow
Victoria Field
Hazel
path-festooner, soft moss-carpeted
modest spindled thing, budding shoots
firing on brown cylinders, thicket-maker
crouching in the fugitive spring
small curator of small creatures
dormice alive with ink-filled eyes
nightingales spilling songs
into the dusk of Kentish skies
catkin-quiverer, water-diviner
bendy-branched earth mystery-seeker
caterpillar-cradler, sweet nut-giver
quiet tree, my secret keeper
Victoria Field
Le Songe d’Aubert
after an illuminated manuscript in the museum in Avranches
Not once but three times
the angel visited
not once but three times
St Michael called on the Bishop
told him clearly he was needed
to build an oratory on the rocks of Mount Tumba
said St Michael, I won’t leave
until you agree, God’s will and all that
the Bishop sat up, rubbed his bleary eyes
blamed his dream on too much cheese
the next night, Michael, who is after all,
an archangel capable of slaying dragons,
appeared again to tell the slumbering Aubert
in words of one syllable what he must do
the Bishop, sitting up, stretched luxuriantly
put the dream down to red wine he’d swigged at supper
the third night, Michael, glittering warrior saint of Cornwall
abandoned words, resorted to his sword
drove it swiftly and smoothly
through the skull of Bishop Aubert of Avranches
finally he sat up, knowing exactly what it was
he had to do.
Victoria Field
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