That's One Of The Things I Hope

I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.

But There Are Some Wounds That Can Never Be Healed.

People Demand A Lot Of The Justice System And They Demand Things That It Can't Deliver.

The Rain Began Again. It Fell Heavily, Easily, With No Meaning Or Intention But The Fulfilment Of Its Own Nature, Which Was To Fall And Fall.