The little chapel packed with suited men,
The funeral of a cousin’s wife. Old school
They were, but fallen on hard times. And she
A pleasant woman, big and friendly, though
I didn’t know her well; so I listened hard
To stories told about her life: fine wife
And mother, baked a lot of cakes. She ran
The mothers’ club at school as had my aunt
The family matriarch. She baked a lot
Of cakes, her door was always open; life
Of serving family, honoured here by tribe
With reverence, joy and sadness. So it seemed
To me these older folk were honouring
What they believed a woman’s life should be.
And thus there loomed another hidden grief,
Though few that sang would cry for other than
A decent life well lived, cut short too soon.
Another time was represented here
Today, and yet in Oz we have a blue
PM, a rabid blue ascendancy.
The miners and big business have the ear
Of our top bloke – it’s said they run the show.
He’s bringing back old British gongs and soon
Will ditch our efforts aimed at climate change
Abatement, start again the wars with greens
And unions, lay the forests waste. Blue tide
Cannot be stopped it seems, but tides go out
Again. Strange way to run a country, back
And forward with progress and reaction – give
A thought to better models, aimed at gains
That last, bipartisan approaches held
In democratic process for the ages.