Issue 1, Semester 2
Out to check the bore-mill:
the Datsun in the dust,
The dried out bones of dingos,
the taste and smell of rust,
the sticky sting and stench of sweat
Foretold the fate he met.
The Datsun stripped of all its paint,
found miles ‘way from the bore
Had halfway sunk into the sand.
The tattered shirt the boy once wore
Was found by searchcars, now a kite
With bones for beams bereft of flight.
All questions of his final thoughts
can now be put to bed;
Cold scratchings on his tin canteen
show what was in his head:
“James, my folt. I always love you Mum + Dad, Jason, Michelle, Joanne.”
When there’s things that need be done, we do the things we can.
— John Badgery
John is a Second Year JD Student