The leaves are gone from the tree, Eddying. We too, wind-cold, with the leaves Revolving. We that were green in the sun Have the yellow of death in our veins. The tree is gaunt in the star-shells, Silver and black, grotesque. And the voice of the wind is a myth In the shouts of the hate. We know of our end— The fear is over for us. But we think and we think– O God! Will there be Spring again?

The planes seem to crash into my room. I feel their wings lurch In torment of darkness And silver; they leave their shadow Flat for an instant, then run Across the floor, like mice. One long, little shadow of death. Sweep, dip, roar in the sudden Zipped bass of them Above my roof, and I crouch down. I am nothing but the seed of fear, Crouching under the plane’s white Ribbed bellies. They are dark and silver in sunlight. Yet in my room they become Little shadows, scimetar slim as Fugitive fear, little shadows left For an instant at my […]

KNAP! … Knap! … Knap! … A stone among stones I sit, Knap . . . Knap . . . Knap— Who is the leader? Not he On the galloping horse, Though he fly like the wind In its course; Not the wheel like a web In the sun, Not even the church And the steeple— But I, the roadmaker.   A stone among stones I sit … Knap … Knap … Knap,— I am the people.     Mary Gilmore  (1865 – 1962) was an Australian writer and journalist known for her prolific contributions to Australian literature and the broader […]

Sarah, walking in the rain With her red mouth twisted in unconcern, Sarah, Sarah with her lovely paleness— How much I could learn at her lips, Of sorrow, sweet despair, of loving and dying. Sarah, crying in the night that life is fair, That she will neither suffer nor burn nor care When the dust settles down so thick on her tawny hair And the night-bird whispers “Sarah. . .”     Dorothy Hewett AM (1923 – 2002) was an Australian poet, novelist and playwright.     

This is the hour When the black dog is eating moonstones and on the dark river gipsies are singing of moons made of blood. This is the hour when moths speak of insistence to a flame of white silence when clocks press the unwanted minutes into caps of metal. This is the hour when Proserpina forgets to cup the moon in her hands and love is a flower of paper under glass and dust.

The crested heron flies over the lake, Lower and lower falling with down-stretched legs Slanting to the waiting water; she touches, And starts ripples in widening circles, like water lilies Unrolling their edges and staring at the sun.   She sits the water as a queen enthroned in light, She drifts in hyacinths, purple and yellow and ivory, She sails magnolia open, swayed by wind puffs That idle with her steering, her pink feet hidden And lazing pleasurably in the limpid lake.   She takes the wind puffs in her fan, and with twisted neck, Plunges her golden beak, wet […]

It was such fun, with lantern light agleam, to hollow out the night of years and dream again, again, again of canefields washed by rain, and we two strolling arm in arm from riverside to farm, past crushing mills a blaze, through lantana lanes to laze on fragrant grass, and listening hear the rumble of the wheels borne on molasses-sweetened air ; and when the light took sudden flight, and blue-grey mantles of the night were spread o’er day, then lantern gleam would seem to leap and dance ahead, while at our muted tread the shy wild things would cast […]