Them

(Sydney, February 2026 )

We stopped calling them pigs

decades ago. 

So long since they rode their horses

into us

or charged us with batons raised

and wielded.

I sort of knew there were still

bad apples …

(I suddenly become aware) I thought I

was immune

with my white skin and my

middle class.

I watch the news tonight

and now

I know that no-one’s immune from

the bash

and none of them is immune from the

power buzz

as they wade into the crowd with

active fists.

One night is all it takes. At 86, instantly

I’m re-radicalised.

(I dare say it’s very unfair to

real pigs.)

Of course, what this doesn't address is, where do their orders come from? (Rhetorical question.)

Reality

 

I invited my friends to write love poems for Valentine’s Day. ‘Glorious love!’ I proclaimed. 

But that was before police in Sydney knocked an old woman down so violently that it broke her spine in four places. It was before they held a young man on the ground and kidney-punched him over and over – which was caught on camera. It was before they forcibly dragged away a group of men who were sitting and praying; also caught on the news. 

The police have assured the public these things did not actually happen. 

The Police Minister told the Parliament, vehemently, that any future protest marches would be ‘antagonising the police.’ (Corollary: marchers will deserve any violence they receive.)

Only love can overcome hate, our great teachers have always told us. I believe them. But sometimes loving our enemies becomes difficult – our enemies who are supposed to be our protectors.

Yesterday I was still thinking,’Well at least we don’t live in America.’ But the sickness has spread.

We can barely believe what we are contemplating now on our TV screens.

I shut my eyes

those images remain –

I shut them harder

Written for Friday Writings #214 at Poets and Storytellers United.

At Lancia's Place

 

In my friend’s garden

there are always flowers

every time of year,

and birds at the feeding box

her husband built.

The years go on;

we are all getting older.

Looking out across her lawn

over the descending hill,

I’m grateful to still visit.

A Quadrille for dVerse, 44 words (minus title) which must include some form of ‘flower’: Quadrille  #241.

(Photos all taken in Lancia and Ern's garden; just a few of the many over the years.)