November 19th 2016


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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY QUT discrimination case exposes Human Rights Commission failings

CANBERRA OBSERVED Triggs in the gun: loaded section 18C to get overhaul

EDITORIAL First Brexit, now Trump - it's the economy, stupid!

ANALYSIS What is possible to a Trump Whitehouse

MANUFACTURING Foreign ownership no sole reason for breakdown

ENVIRONMENT Billionaires bankroll U.S. anti-coal campaign

LIFE ISSUES Abortion trauma link to male suicides

NATIONAL AFFAIRS Commission's "Get Pell" campaign fails on facts

GENDER AND POLITICS Pronouns, ordinary folk, and the war over reality

NAVAL MILITARY HISTORY A WWII encounter that deserves remembrance

INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS China builds Great Wall in the South China Sea

MUSIC Dylan's Nobel prize causes song and dance

CINEMA Humanity within inhumanity: Hacksaw Ridge

BOOK REVIEW Bill is $500 billion and counting

BOOK REVIEW Arguments and facts: the man who remade Russia

POETRY Sunset at the Perth War Cemetery

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POETRY
Sunset at the Perth War Cemetery




News Weekly, November 19, 2016

 

I came here with my mother first. Later
she bought a house nearby. I walk here still.
There are new names, new rows of plaques
and new blank walls to fill.

 

One Anzac Day my mother and I
walked through Perth, she in her nurse’s cape,
after the march. I saw with apprehension
a crowd of drunks. I looked to escape

 

as they sprawled out of a pub, a couple fighting.
(My boarding-school had taught me fear
at eight years old). I tugged her sleeve,
Urged her to cross the road as we drew near.

 

They were loud, had bottles, were staggering,
blocking the pavement ahead.
I pulled harder at my mother’s sleeve.
“Oh, they’re all right,” she said.

 

She walked on. The brawling old diggers
stood as ram-rods, hands on hearts, till she passed.
Some called, “God bless you, Sister!” Some saluted.
“Why are they doing that?” I asked.

 

I think I know the reason now.
I place three poppies: one for my own dead,
One for a hero I knew, one at random.
The West is glorious in gold and red.

 

Hal G.P. Colebatch




























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