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.

Oyster Cove

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.