Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations. – Cyril Connolly

THE OLD PROVERBIAL RECOVERY

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Brian Dunnett & Mark Gregory . . . research archive

The Northern Mail

The Northern Mail is moving fast
With seven hundred souls;
Though many vow this ride’s their last,
The fireman shovels coal.

Who knows the drama buried here
Within this lurching throng?
Who knows what tales of love and fear—
Who knows who’s right—or wrong?

There’s cutters, shearers, spielers, thugs,
Commercials with cigars
With town-men, bushmen, bad men, mugs,
They jostle through the cars.

The Northern Mail goes roaring on,
A comet through the night;
The sun goes down, the bush has gone,
The farm-lamps fly from sight.

And some arrange, with weary hand,
A bundle in the rack;
Only the bush can understand
Their fate—along the track….

And some for health and pleasure go,
And some go riding free,
And some sleep now who do not know
Where their next bed will be.

God knows what’s…

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To avoid that run-down feeling, cross the streets carefully.

THE OLD PROVERBIAL RECOVERY

 

http://www.seekfind.net/WiseSayingsQuotesAndProverbs.html

EMPTY STREETS

foto of hyde street bellingen nsw australi in december 2013

The church cars have gone—
this empty street needs you.
Clouds gather in the west,
bitumen drinks the sun
and everything is slow;
the dog deeply sleeping.
Tomorrow there are bills
to pay, a house to plaster,
but this stillness lingers
in the naked limbs of trees,
on the green and yellow grass.
This empty street needs you—
its sun-drenched gardens,
its music of cars.

Cameron Lowe’s ‘Sunday’,

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