If truth divine be all I sing,
My love for thee would surely ring
Tall bells aloft cathedral spires,
Inspiring poets with their lyres,
Melting snow to drip and bleed
The lifeblood of all earth and seed
To call the spring to rise to rouse
New fruitlings on the greener boughs!
O! All the truth my heart desires
Would kindle sun to blaze her fires!

In passing fancy,
I netted a man
Long departed

Such honours bestowed
On this artist,
Born here
Died there

His greatness
Told in few words

Quick to anger?
Passionate?
Unkempt?

I know of him
And know him not,
And never shall

And what stranger
Could know me
From my epitaph?

TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.

Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.

Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.

For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.

And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.

Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.

In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.

But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.

I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.

There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.

Ban the burka or the bomb?
Ban the turban or the gun?
Ban the Bible or the gore?
Ban the Torah or the war?

Ban religion, ban belief
Ban San Frontièrs, ban relief
Ban the poets, ban free speech
Ban the people born to teach

Ban the children, ban the old
Ban the meek and ban the bold
Ban the weakest, ban the strong
Ban the music, ban the song

Ban the freedom of the sea
Ban ideals of liberty
Ban your birthright, ban free will
Ban excitement, ban the thrill

Ban all things with no misgiving
Ban the joyous gift of living.

O'er shingle tossed on raggèd shore,
In awe I gaped that vast array
Of gleaming waves, a teeming store
Of natures bounty in the bay,
Reflecting with each crest and trough
Mosaic fragments of the sky
That echoed on the high-flung bluff
'Neath where stood I.

If God e'er laid a dint or breach
For beauty's sake, this land divine
Is refuge when the storm winds preach,
When rains flow like communion wine;
Each pebble strewn, yet seemly placed
In knitted weave, as tho' on high
A seamstress sewed her pattern, traced
To pleaseth I.

Oh any heart but mine rejoice
To taste this salted spray;
The longing of mine own device
Lays far beyond the bay.

To stand beneath the mizzen-mast,
Upon an isle of polished teak,
Surrendered to the winded flax
Wild-dancing round with every creak;
From port to starboard, fore and aft,
No land, nor ship, nor blot on high,
Wouldst dare encroach the mindful craft
That carries I.

What yearning heart has heard her call,
That siren? Oh the sailor's sea,
In beauty does she rise and fall,
Enchanting is her melody;
Too deep her eyes of coral blue
Wherein she takes, as is her wont,
Unwary souls to charters new,
The Lordships and the débutante.

*And unto her, when wearied age
Makes breathless every sigh
And bones become a prison cage,
Will answer I.