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Poetry

His grandfather

What was he thinking of, coming here?

A new world? A rich initiative

For a young body raised in an old country?

He brought with him all the old concepts

To join with others already here.

There was no new world. He brought with him illusions

In large measure. It was in his blood

And he was surrounded by a vision certainly.

As if a tree might grow in air. That, too, came with him.

I am the grandson of all this.

My own children accept as inevitable

The way things are. It is their birthright.

Floods, drought – all excess – belong to them

As well as the way the sun strikes down.

Somehow they have the language for it.

My grandfather's voice is still in my head

But I cannot divine what was in his heart.

We make our own myths and mysteries.


From Griffith Review Edition 34: The Annual Fiction Edition © Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Griffith Review