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
I've not seen your blog before, so thanks for stopping at The Villages DP!
I'll be back here often.
Regarding the legality of golf cars in the street, see my response to Clueless in Boston.
Have a great day.
You are quite a poet, yourself...I enjoyed your descriptions of the photos as much as the photos themselves!
Hi Ez, how'ya doin?
HOW DO YOU GET ANYTHING DONE, WITH SUCH PULL-ABLE CHEEKS AROUND
I blame Henry.