Selected poems
St Patrick's Ballarat
Outside
on the steel railings
the coloured ribbons
tied with love and hate,
flap listlessly in the light
summer breeze, images
of regret and loss,
brightness and hope.
At the rear on
the deserted bitumen
alleys and parkways,
between the retired priests'
caves, with blinds drawn,
the young boys
ride their clever scooters
up and down the slopes,
with cries of exultation,
as they explore
the silence
with the energy of
uncomplicated
innocent
childhood.
Ballarat Kiddywinks
It is a struggle
to find the most
appropriate image.
I had thought of
a smooth round
partly submerged
in the earth,
granite dome,
some lichen,
glows in the
winter sun,
comforting.
Men come with
crow-bars
dig at the edges,
pieces of granite
shear off, revealing
little. More men, more
crow-bars, more chips,
more frustration.
Rock looking
worse for wear,
ambience now
slightly damaged.
Move on to
the next rock
say some.
Then the 'dozer, D9 or
similar, the rock shudders
then gives way, is
upended and all of
the worms, cockroaches
and other crawling
things are revealed
in the damp oozing earth.
The crowd looks on,
faces of disappointment,
strained expressions,
their dreams and their
beliefs now questioned and —
anyway, whose idea was it
to disturb the rock?
The gold in Ballarat
has long gone.
Another simple image
comes from boyhood
when fireworks were for
sale and the main currency,
'best bang for your buck',
was the 'penny bunger'.
Placed in the appropriate
moist cow pat, it would
blow shit everywhere in
a bright green circle.
Those in the know ran
quickly and with a sense
of timing, and the ridiculous
mixed with some irony,
and luck to be in the right
place at the right time.
Should that be the wrong
place at the wrong time?
Don't choke on the clichés,
beware the cutting edge of satire.
The truth lies buried
in a hole somewhere.
Gap in the fence
Ivy hedges are interrupted by
a gap toothed grey wooden
interlude where light is let
through and a limited narrative
presents itself in the afternoon
light, leaning this way and
that. Bees are busy in the ivy
and the timber looks precarious
at best, and an excuse at worst.
The chimneys of various shapes
and sizes on the priest's houses
next door, have not spumed
since the winter, and in and
around St Patrick's things like
that might seem symbolic. Will
fires ever be lit there again — lest
the people speak — the ribbons
spliced up and down the wrought
iron railings, rattle in the brisk
autumn breeze, telling stories of
love, suffering and endless
disharmony, broken trust, send
messages to those in the passing
traffic, paused only for the traffic
lights — better the devil you don't
know, smiling faces dancing on
dark graves in winter, old men
stirring coffee in neighbourhood
cafes, remembering when — for
two shillings, or an ice cream,
innocence and silence could be
traded, children with one arm
up behind their back, smiling —
a grimace become a learned smile —
would give frightened assent through
clenched teeth — and the earth
never paused on its axis and the