This Thursday morning, bright and warm,

half- past eleven of the clock,

the gardens past their Summer best.

A youngish man of no apparent abode

seeks shelter among the ornamental shrubs.


Not yet mid-day, and his day is done,

he crawls away from the constant path,

to lie hidden and homeless, in the

shadow of that eminent place of

Art and beauty.


He has the sense to hide, to spare our

feelings, we strangers with the awkward gaze,

A gaze we find embarrassing, no place to

look, except away, nothing to do, except

dissmiss, as we walk on . . . not looking back.


Close to The Art Gallery N.S.W. 15th April 2004.

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