August 25th 2018


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Articles from this issue:

COVER STORY Current policies leave farmers high and dry in drought

CANBERRA OBSERVED Captain and Lieutenant's $444 million munificence

MEDICAL ETHICS Changes to AHPRA's code of conduct would gag doctors

FOREIGN AFFAIRS Trump delivers for U.S. economy and workers

CHILDREN AND SOCIETY Treating depressed children: How will history judge us?

PRIVACY Big Brother is marketing you

THE FAMILY Humanae Vitae: a prophetic document at 50

SOCIETY AND MORES Novel features of child sexual abuse in our time

EUTHANASIA International expert emphasises palliative care

BIOGRAPHY The trouble with Harry (Freame) is that we've forgotten him

OPINION Just asking ... sauce for the goose ...?

HISTORY Christianity has died. Agreed, and yet ...

MILITARY HISTORY The volunteering spirit proves best in the test

HUMOUR

MUSIC Chilly exposure: The sound and the fury

CINEMA Mission Impossible: Fallout: Ethan Hunt, knight errant

BOOK REVIEW A good diagnosis enables the cure

BOOK REVIEW End of the American empire?

LETTERS

POETRY

OPINION The Victorian ALP observed from up close

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POETRY




News Weekly, August 25, 2018

Swan River at Nedlands (i)

 

Still today as always the jewelled patterns
of golden sand
under a yacht’s suddenly buoyant keel lifting
in morning sun, in bird-shallows
and wavelets blown
on shining pebbles and oyster-shells.

 

Swan River at Nedlands (ii)

 

How lucky, how lovely, to have
the golden sands, green banks,
the blue expanse of the estuary
with its kites and para-sailers,
its white yachts,
vistas of gifts to lift the spirit,
a few minutes’ walk
from the happiness of my house!

 

The Tourist’s First Morning at Windsor

 

From my hotel window
I gawp unbelieving
at my first sight
of a squad of toy soldiers
scarlet-coated and bear-skinned
magically come to life
from a thousand books and marching
up the cobbled streets
with fife and drum. And suddenly
the gates that bar
the Perilous Realm’s borders
open ajar an instant.

 

It

(Following a poem by Peter Kocan)

 

We used to talk about It quite a lot:
Men often do, gathered round a bar,
It’s always been a fascinating topic,
That’s provided entertainment from afar.

We wondered what It would be like to meet,
Sometimes regretting, somewhere deep inside
That we were born too late, too far away.
We wouldn’t meet It, even if we tried.

It had become quite discriminating lately
About who It would  honour with a meeting.
It wasn’t always so. Our fathers, for example,
Obtained no great distinction from Its greeting.

We thought that we might meet It years ago,
But the formalities were not completed.
The footman took our cards and then
Before the introductions, It retreated.

I thought of weeding out my books about It,
Thinking Its influence was on the wane,
When my son called me to the television
And we saw It had become a star again.

So after a sabbatical It has, perhaps, returned
Even if not in the expected way.
And at our bars and dinner parties It
now tends to dominate the things we say.

It may be waiting in the street outside,
We wonder if It’s going to pay a call,
Feeling perverse relief, and an odd pride -
Are we really going to meet It after all?

Hal G.P. Colebatch




























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Last Modified:
April 4, 2018, 6:45 pm