John Forbes working in Newtown (circa early 1980s). Photographer unknown. (Australian Poetry Library)
This poem is occasional enough to perhaps benefit from a little bit of context, of the kind John didn’t especially like. In 1981 my partner Trish Davies and I moved to Blackheath, in the bushfire-prone Blue Mountains. At the time John’s parents — Len, a retired meteorologist, and Phyllis — also lived in Blackheath. Len was a keen golfer.
The poem and accompanying clipping came in two heavy cellophane sleeves, stapled together to form a double spread, or cottage industry looking mini-chapbook. It’s all Forbes-like enough to unleash lashings of nostalgia. I have no idea where the clipping came from, or when it was published. For all I know it might have come from an old magazine — something tells me unjustifiably it was Pol — removed from a doctor’s waiting room. The poem, typed…
View original post 241 more words