My apologies for forgetting a poem of the poet of the month, Gwen Harwood. It is below. I will shorty put out a note on terror and Paris. First it must be vetted – by lawyers, ASIO, the CIA, and my household fire insurers.
Dreams drip to stone. Barracks and salt marsh blaze
opal beneath a crackling glaze of frost.
Boot-black, in graceless Christian rags, a lost
race breathes out cold. Parting the milky haze
on mudflats, seabirds, clean and separate, wade.
Mother, Husband and Child: stars which forecast
fine weather, all are set. The long night’s past
and the long day begins.
To be continued.