1971 School Magazine

Ooigino{ Cn*tvi[wtions

lA' {on*[in"' "f tfru {r*g fiirtun"' K*n*", Australia is the lonely country. Strange land! She began the race, in one sense, long before her fellows, and now she waits, brooding, unutterably lonely, for her pursuers to catch up. Yet in some ways her race has only just beguh. Whilst she waits, resentful in her loneliness, her people, The Australians, run their race around her ioaitline. Late to the start, theirs is an unceasing bid to retrieve lost time. With desperate haste they fly across the surface of life-no tilne to establish those roots whose deep stability might slow them down. Other peoples got to the start long before the Australians did. Theirs is the time to throng the streets at night, theirs is the leisure to congregate in cafes, to sing with unanimous spontaneity at the sound of a familiar tune. Their privilege it is with time on their sides, to welcome into their arms and homes the travelling stranger-and their joy it is. They have the time to care. But The Australians well late to the start-no time to give. Not for them the generous spontaneity of other peoples. There is no time-no time for meaningful lives, to establish the roots which could remove the loneliness, the loneliness of the poor, breathless Australian. His lot it is, until,time is iompletely his, to rush home from work, to close his dooi, to leave his streets lonely and cold in the unfeeling glare of the street lights. He must suffer his loneliness in thoughtless, mechanical obedience. No roots can spread, nor fruit be borne until The Australians have caught up the race. Theirs is the fantastical haste of the late starter-theirs the loneliness ofthe long distance runner. And whilst in a fury of meaningless haste, her people rush around her shores, Australia waits. In brooding, resentful silence she awaits the appe,arance of the o=ther competitors in the race. Or one! Oh but for one other competitor who might remove this aching loneliness which has been with her so long. For she started such a long time before everyone else. A proud land she is, contemptuous of man, yet hurt and resentful that she should have been left so long, so very long, alone. And so she waits, seemingly slumbering, but ever-vigilant hoping, brooding. With ancient pride bottling lonely self-pity Australia waits, lonely. And her people rush on, lonely.

,.-N*tive

Have you ever seen a rwtive Ilalk abng his beach, alone? The whtti sand an which he walks supports him; And as the sun sets behind the roaring sea, He is at peace, Silhouetted against the skY. Have you ever looked? C*nuict He scoffed. at God but his arms could not reach Nor touch nor hold nor grasq His life or time. He was a slave thnt hardened this beach and allowed the Past to sliP behind And wash this ssnd. SolJrc,' im Aidro,* This war has wounds that ffi cannot heal. Gravity calls their bones to rot in Earth's grove And to throw their lives to the sun. The path they tread is locked from progress. Valleys echo the patterns they make in the dirt And their tracks drum in time to the bullet rain. Voluno ash never cools, And birds tn cages will ne'er be free.

VIB

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