the barman explaining
in exasperated tones
how and why gold
pure gold in the visor
protects from killing light
from light beyond imagining

in his pockets
the softest ballet shoes
beneath his old grey suit
a sparkling leotard

belonging to the bush
means wider skies
thorn trees
hills that change colour
clear air
a billion stars
puff-adders
and bolting horses
shooting brakes
on dirt roads
verandas
and tin roofs
pinging with heat
rattling in the rains

ardent decoration
much gold and gilded wood

great candles
some the size of men

and faded bishop's robes
preserved behind new glass

in a side chapel
shadowed and cools

a wall of photographs

the roof collapsed
the nave in ruins

where men in dusty suits
and men in overalls

and little priests in clean soutanes
climb rubbled hills

to wonder at the sky

tap-shackled
pot-shotten
in their cups
fogged and fuddled
it feels stagey, staged
this strange milling of arms
and now and then
a sort of half-lunge
proper shouting
a fair bit of pointing
bravura, signori! bravura!
it ends as suddenly
as it begins

at the edge of the field
where the boy was shot
by a crazy old farmer
both barrels it's said
for stealing sweetcorn

a wooden shrine
lacquered black
pitched roof
flower holder
filled with wildflowers

beneath Christ crucified
a photograph
somewhat faded
of a young teen laughing
playing the piano

– for the sons of impoverished seafarers –

(A formal photograph, Bredene, Belgium, 1917)

here they are

the little men

one is scowling thunder

two stare out, defiant

three touch furtive hands

four are forcing smiles

five are here and

God knows where

drifting with the tide

It is only an old photograph

of some lost looking boys
aged around nine or ten
on board their floating school

long dead boys
lined up in Sunday uniform
dressed as sailors

each and every one
wears old men's faces

carrying concerns
that may be those of any boy
at any time

some lost in thought
some dreaming

discomfort and boredom
possibly anger
possibly grief

I suspect there's more
but then I would

I carry my own freight

being now a father
having been a boy

even unto every third acorn
which is forgotten
yet brings forth great oaks

that bull seal
moving at improbable speed
turns out to be a windy bin bag

in a solar panelled Ute
bedding down by scratch fires
they crack another bottle
(only the finest wine)
raise a toast to brotherhood
as constellations wheel