A spot of poetry, wot?

Part I: From Banjo Paterson’s Clancy of the Overflow

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the [AIRCON] and the [RICKWHAWS] making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

[…]

And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal—
But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.

Part II: From Donkey of the Underpass.

A year ago, I too was in an office, of all places,
but a little different from this one, with it’s sallow, un-lit faces.
It was down South at Small Malaita, where we’d gathered for talk and training,
A dilapidated Court House, t’only shelter from the raining.

And in a week of rats, and filth and tasteless scran, of rain and endless lessons,
I forged relationships with people, and with cultures and locations,
And I learned something of a happy race, of hardships and of me,
And I know I’d gladly swap this prison cell, with it’s flouro lights and whirring beeps,
To look across the beach, and see the waves sway to and fro,
And to feel the wind across my face, and to belong as once before I did, when I worked in Afio!

Yep, Old Banjo knew what he was on about ... I think it might be time to make a move ... whadayareckon?


The view from the courthouse where I was running training in Afio ... pretty nice, hey? Photo: Sally.