Three old diaries
sit on my desk,
three pale red, red
and light brown books
small enough to
fit in the palm
of my hand, so
small little could
be recorded,
like three bubbles
of the gas that,
stuck in ice cores,
tells us of the
air long ago,
but nothing else.
It was a time
when I was young
and life had not
yet unfolded –
would be nice to
know more than that
I was breathing.
Looking back,
corridors
of my mind
are lined with
all of the
people
I have known
at length
or briefly,
and I can
see again,
like an old
movie, with
pleasure or
pain, in whole
films or
single frames,
all of their
faces as
they once were.
The end of life
is like the end
of a good night
out. A group of
friends leave the light
and warmth of the
out of the door
and head for home
along the dark road.
As we travel,
one friend after
another turns
off, waving and
calling goodbye.
Until, at last, it
is just you, on
the long road home.
In early life
no need to wear
a watch because
your day is set
out for you. In
adult life you
check your watch a
hundred times a
day, every
minute could be
important. In
old age you lose
your watch. Minutes
no longer of
interest. Just
getting through nights.
An autobiography
listing all the things
you haven’t done
in your life might
be just as revealing
as one about the
things you have done.
I challenged
received wisdom,
but those who
had received that
wisdom did not
accept my challenge,
said that the wisdom
was unchallengeable,
and therefore the
challenge was wrong.
Never mind, soon I will
be gone, and then you
can say “what challenge?”
Summer is here,
in the middle of
Spring, with the
first warning of
bushfires, and the
first moment of
almost treading
on a snake (a cute
baby Black, but hey
a snake’s a snake).
In winter I stride
across the land
(though always
avoiding ants, and
beetles, and spiders).
I walk differently
in Summer. Slower,
more carefully,
each foot
landing lightly.
Concentrates the
eye wonderfully
knowing the next
step could be your
last. Is that what
makes us Australians,
I wonder, such a
cautious tentative
breed?
Whenever war
is declared,
whichever countries
are involved,
you will find,
making the
announcement,
a clown, backed
by his followers –
all hard-faced men
who intend to
do well out of it.
Being the “Oldest
Inhabitant”
of a town
is a job
for life;
but not
for long.
“Village Idiot”
also used to be
a job for life
and a long one;
but now a new one
comes along
every day.
Old age is
like walking through
a Grimm forest
in a dark night;
branches whip
the face; unseen
carnivores roar;
pits give way
underfoot; trees
fall with a crack;
and somewhere
ahead on the path,
waiting in the gloom,
is the slough of despond
