Once you move beyond the morning, the excitement and the immediacy of giving and getting presents…
Christmas is all a bit meh really.
I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...
Comments
Downcast eyes, morose look on the face.
That child looks as if he has been made to read haiku.
Merry (second) Christmas Day!
Here's one Christmas song and here's another - and better - one....
Fireblossom, wrist rockets sound dangerous.
Diederick, Christmas usually ends in tears.
Julia, cancelling X-mas!
Louis, Mon Lo!