asylum

no regrets
says the comfortable canberra man
watching the crazed refugees
on closed circuit tv
yawning at his looming superannuated
years in adelaide

people like that, he sneers,
exploit our compassion
sipping champagne with a paid entertainer
waiting for the next flight home
to family and dogs
fawning at his wiped feet

My Boy

I’d bought the best brie
and real French baguette
for my son’s lunch.
I see him rarely these days.

He stood tall and smiling in the doorway
orthodontically perfect
but otherwise with some of my imperfections.

We sat at the window in the winter sun
and he showed me his latest designs
proudly – he’d taken all the photos himself,
written the business plan
and wants to launch himself into the world.

He ate with relish and a man’s appetite
and asked if he could borrow the laptop.
I’d have gladly given him all I own.

Declined a wine.
Unlike me,
he doesn’t drink in the middle of the day.

Gare du Nord

Random lights of night’s end
tattoo the dawn people
in the bar at the Gare du Nord,
crackling with neon wit,
last night’s conquests and
Salut les gars!
Putting a fine face on the unborn day,
Bonne nuit says the barman with a wink.

Twenty metres below
the people of the metro snort and stir
in the plastic light.
Is the night not yet consumed
among the butts and bottles?
A lanky black gives his babe a cuddle
while the Arab looks sideways
and wipes his greasy mouth
wondering if the murky dawn above
will beat him home
to his sleeping wife.

Denfenella

in memory of Denis Kevans, 1939-2005


When the gangs of politicians are forgotten
and their names covered over with slime
and their tasteful caskets are rotten,
O poet, it will still be your time.

When Labor and Liberal have joined
to defeat the red-green coalition,
your verses will still be recited
by all who believe in your mission.

When the ocean is lapping round Penrith
and horses and buggies are back,
the pilgrimage to Denfenella
will become a well-worn mountain track.

Your heart was as big as your belly,
your mind was as big as the plain,
your dreams were the dreams of the people.
Will one such come this way again?

As I walk with galah and rosella
under deep blue mountain heavens
I like to think Denfenella
was named after you, Denis Kevans.

Downhill Run

Feeling the lack of you, my son
at the year’s turning

you on some blinding slope
streaking through a white world

your awayness wearing me down
I should never have let you go

but that’s not how it goes

young men ski away to open fields
leaving dads stranded on beginners’ runs

and if you’re lucky they send
what used to be a postcard

Elephant ride, Phnom Penh

The children are riding an elephant.
They look fretful at first
for the elephant is huge and lumbering,
stronger than ten men
and could easily turn nasty.
Hard to tell from its blinkered eyes
what its intentions are.
Better to expect the worst.

One child, who doesn’t really want to be up there
is crying now. Others force a smile.
The elephant plods on, head down,
ears flapping furiously,
leading Sihanouk’s children to a destination
they did not choose
nor could ever imagine.