Imagining Snow

It snowed for the first time in 6 years in Rome today. This poem is a response to the way the flakes may have felt, in waiting to find their place there…

A Ragged Congregation

I wait and listen and watch, and my father’s spirit joins the congregation, settles in a place between my lungs and my heart, drawn here from his body a few kilometres away, and through my eyes he watches the first hesitant appearance of a scattering of gemstone stars. 

Gold Dust

There’s a moment when the sun breaks through the quicksilver swirl of the clouds, and a beam of light scans the fields beyond and below like a spotlight, and you wonder “Is that God, peeping at His creation?” Below lie the bones of cave bears among the scattered limestone and shale dandruff of the cliffs;…

All the Wisdom of the World

All the world’s wisdom is found here; or so it would seem. Printed on false weathered timber and on paper reams.   Mantras hung in the entrance hall, white is just preferred. And best of all by the toilet walls- thought for your pennies (undeterred).   Lectures on love and family, wisdom -inner peace! Reminders…

Buda Pest

I took this picture, but it was a poor comparison to the one I took a few hours earlier with my wife in it.

3 Stories of an Uncle

His face is plump and decorated with the sort of moustache that immediately comes to mind when thinking of the European male stereotype, and indeed he is truly the embodiment of the traditional Austrian man.


Predictably, nothing ever fits either culture, Australian or Austrian, and my surname is no exception. Understanding it seems to confound even the most intelligent of people, they ask my name and I struggle through it; sometimes I say it first, other times I spell it. Lately I’ve been breaking it up into three parts –…

A Junkyard of Lights

Sometimes even now, two years since he died, I catch myself thinking about asking Dad for advice. For a millisecond, I forget that he is dead, and start to make a plan of when to call, how to frame the question – and then I remember that he is dead. That millisecond of forgetting is…


The corridor is hushed and dark while the summer sky shines in the park Upon his wrist they place the tag Around the skin as worn as rags   My father sleeps in a crowded room, filled with dreams and flowers in bloom, And onto him they tied his name and watched the hurt come…

What the Village allows

The typical ideal of an Austrian village includes snow capped peaks and deep valleys, adorable church spires, pine forested hills and maybe a few good natured cowbells tanging in the distance. That’s not what Felixdorf is like at all.