Spring2021

paddocks placed in irregular patterns
a mathematician’s nightmare in a perimeter question
scrawny gravel roads, weavings of connection
between pasture and playground
not a slight of sound

a trough of murky swamp
trees are perfectly planted
on a surface slanted
sheep trapped with a barrier of wire
no knowledge of their sire

grain silos bulging
windmills pumping their blood
the wind their heart, the legs in mud
hands work in dimly lit sheds
awaiting the night, to come to their beds

discarded drums seasoned with holes
dams crawling with yabbies, marron
empty gravel pits, void of life, barren
a screeching two-stroke
frogs croak

a lake covered in a seasonal pink
starry skies with not a single link
in the garden where grass is mown
in the field where seeds are sown
this is the place I want to be
the ground, the sky;

and me

I watch you, Yaya, in your bed,
You mumble, now you write
The pillow pressing softly against your head
Reminiscing on your life and delights.

We all watch you lie there,
We hold your hand, but you can’t flail,
We gaze and stare,
We watch as you lie there but you can’t wail.

I remember holding your hand and closing my eyes,
Hoping that when I opened them and my head lifted,
That you’d be fine, and this will have passed by,
We could then get a second chance gifted.

But it’s ok, what we had was great,
But what we can have will be even better.

We shouldn’t let this moment pass by,
You still have more time.
We should try, we shouldn’t cry,
I wish you could get up and climb.

But you can’t and we’ll just have to weather this fight.
You’re surrounded by love, and we’ll support you through.
Without you, life will feel like walking through a stormy night.
I always thought you’d live forever, but I think I knew.

That at one point or another MND would overcome you.

The wise old oak sighs, it has seen this all before;
The horrors and atrocities – oh this is war,
The oak’s branches lay desolate on the barren battlefield
It’s once sprawling canopy, not even a shield.
War … the parasitic arborist, not only a woodcutter, but a cannibal …
Has come to devour the earth like nature’s own Hannibal.
It’s seen good men die for a mere metre gained,
Oh, when will the devil finally be entertained?

The gunfire ceases and the battle smoke has fled,
Now all that remains are the memories and the dead.
For as long as the sun sets at dusk and awakens at the break of dawn,
We lay here together – future hope not forlorn.

When I come home, I shall not be hailed as a hero
For the heroes are buried there … guarded by the oak.
Whilst we may not see them again, their spirits lie
In each one of us their voice drowns out their widow’s cry.

Where violence is a currency and all men are buying,
And, any man who isn’t, is a man who is lying.
Where hope is like a diamond, a rare commodity
By the dawn’s early light, Oh, say can you see?
Where there are no ten commandments; no rules to adhere!
And I wish to my family, but I couldn’t explain
And I know St Peter will call my name.
If the sun should rise and find me not here,
Please do not cry, don’t shed a single tear.
For I will be safe and shielded by the old oak
Its branches and leaves, now serve as my cloak.

Fear not for this is not the end,
For a soldier’s peace, is a soldier’s friend.
And when the sun wakes but I do not,
I’ll sleep soundly; I gave it all I got.

Tick, Tock,
These servants of time destroying their lives for one moment of satisfaction,
How is it that we spend entireties of our lives in this endless repetition of lies?
Only to discover that these crypto criminals who steal our freedom with a simple distraction,
Are the real villains in this broken struggle of power – for now is our time to take action.

Tick Tock,
But there is still hope,
As the walls of time cave in on us there is hope for redemption,
Stepping away from that deadly obsession,
We strengthen our mind from the continuous tensions we are put under.

Tick Tock,
Time is running out.
Sitting behind a computer desperate for a crumb of clout,
Willing to sell our secrets, slaving away our say in this sour world,
For we do not care for our future only this present display.

Tick Tock,
How is it we can live like this?
Avoiding this desolating problem
As if the lies we live amongst are a bliss.
And as these tech giants look into our eyes
We are marched to our inevitable demise.

The knights wearing whites stroll to the wicket,
The umpire calls out, ‘Let’s play cricket’.
Yielding their willow blades, the batsmen mark middle stump on the crease,
As the bowler steams in, the batsmen’s concentration does nothing but increase.
The red leather cherry is hurtled from the bowler like a rocket,
You can see the flame in the batsman’s eyes; he does not want to block it.

He freed his arms but keeps his technique aligned,
He heard the crack of leather on willow, he knew it was the sign.
The ball danced across the sky and over the boundary,
Drowning in excitement he knew he had played the ball soundly.
Cheers from the pavilion erupted like a volcano,
Creating a feeling only some may know.

He walks to his partner across the pitch,
His teammates’ encouragement from the other side of the wicket seems to flick a switch.
He refaces the bowler and stalks the ball out of the bowler’s hand like a hawk,
The crowd watched on but was in too much awe to talk.
He leant towards the ball and almost headbutted it like a belligerent bull,
It was obvious the ball was pitched too full.

He swung through the ball sending it sailing safely for six,
His teammates wonder what else he can bring out of his bag of tricks.
His batting partner’s encouragement spurs him on,
With his veins filled with confidence he felt like the Don.
The flow of runs could not be stopped,
The opposing team could only be shocked.

His team’s upliftment lit his flame,
He could not recall that he had ever batted the same.
The opponent’s total edged closer and closer,
But he maintained his rhythm like a composer.
Cheers and hoots filled the ground,
Teammates’ support is the ultimate performance enhancing supplement he found.

Imperfections are unfortunate,
Change is truly unfair,
Life should be stable and never changing,
Love should be in the air.

This outlook on life is terribly flawed,
But most people see it this way,
Change is inevitable,
flaws are not terrible,
And the sky is commonly grey.

Change is a traveller, leaving behind
The past and the habits,
Please find peace of mind.
The Traveller will always keep moving
So bad times will leave you
And good times will find you.

We strive to clear any flaws from our body
With plastics, and oils and surgeries,
We pay and we work, and we hope for no change,
But The Traveller will find his way here.

So do not fret over this or that,
Do not worry that you are not flawless,
The Traveller forever moves
For life is never faultless.

A new world, a different world,
As deep as our imaginations dive,
We know so little,
Yet it barely survives.

Every stroke of my fin,
Just seconds apart,
Yet time moves so slowly,
Like a stroke of art.

A new world, a different world,
Where distractions are left behind,
No problem in sight,
No trouble in mind.

For the winds do not howl,
Yet the currents flow deep,
The absence of noise,
Not even a beep.

A new world, a different world,
A place where the pearl white sand reflects the piercing rays of sun,
Where the menacing abyss taunts the lonely soul,
For the adventure begins before the life has begun.

It will never be perfect,
Always whimsical, wistful, and wild,
But it holds such beauty,
So let it not be defiled.

A new world, a different world,
With so much to show,
700,000 species,
So why not let it glow?

For it’s as gorgeous as 24 karat gold,
And as mysterious as the universe,
Many secrets remain untold,
And each single crevasse, a forbidding curse.

Whether it was God or science,
We will never know,
But one thing is certain,
The ocean will always flow.

For the ocean is a new world,
A different world.

A place to go, full of excitement,
Don’t have to worry about a school assignment.
A brand-new experience comes with every stride,
Unlike the city there’s no one trying to hide.

The outback is where there is no traffic nor traffic lights,
A place of freedom so quiet and so bright.
The country is a whole different lifestyle,
Relaxing, listening to country music on vinyl.

The outback is very unknown,
It could be sunshine then, bam, cyclone.
No matter where you go, you must stay alert,
Otherwise, you can end up seriously hurt.

Cruising through the windy roads,
Listening to the howling crows.
The trees aggressively bashing each other,
Admiring the endless surrounding colour.

The cool night draft sweeps in,
Trees rustling in the wind,
Crickets chirping far away,
Muddy water lapping on the reeds,
Moon reflecting on the inlet bay.

Covered in shimmering silky ribbons,
The night sky less quiet the more I listen.
“T’wit-T’woo” owls peacefully cry,
Weaving through the branches and leaves
Trees the colour of their hazelnut eyes.

Possums and quolls quietly hiding
In the ferns and canopies,
Living in the shadows of night,
Hiding from the humans’ plight,
Of giant skyscrapers and cities.

Somewhere, across countryside
People scurrying like mice under bright streetlights,
Through melancholy streets with no end,
With no time to spare or to spend.

Trains and cars and chatter and bikes,
Noise polluting the smoky sights.
Towering high-rises and blaring lights,
I’d much rather be at peace with the night.

Shards of sunlight brush the surface from the East,
I see it now, the Big Blue Beast.
My expression set, our eyes have met,
My feet soothed, pressed into the golden blanket.
Froth of the wave-break tickles my toes,
Sinks back to the sea, bringing with it my woes.
It calls to me, though my hearing’s thinned,
Over the swish-swash and humming wind
Bearer of this luscious life.

It swallows you up, to the depths of its darkness,
With thick freeze and salty spray, I gasp
Beneath the crystal teal.
Its wonders concealed,
I break the glass, to a whole new realm,
Through fogged lens, I’m overwhelmed.
Only the ocean, where,
Jagged rose petals dance on the silky floor,
Shimmering torrent schools of fish,
Ripple and flow of the whitecaps
Only where,
Wings twitter and soar among cloud-covered skies,
Manta rays glide, a jet-black cloak,
Gurgling fish sway amongst the rich coral.

You are placid, yet violent,
Vast, yet contained.
I am lost, but you take my hand,
Your reassuring touch guides me through.
I will go where the tide takes me,
No place I’d rather be.
The waves crash and with every splash,
I know that I am one, with you, the ocean

Gaming, what’s there to say?
It’s a wonderful addiction,
And I’ll try to play it all day,
I play with friends, and I play with family.
While games can be fun, there is a dark side to this other worldly fantasy,
There’s addiction,
Obsession,
Stress,
Loss of Friendships.
…
…
But
Gaming can be exciting,
Time slips away,
It’s an escape from reality,
Relaxation,
Exciting Connections,
Sound effects,
A devious distraction.
All of these I find in games,
All of these, are why I play.

I have limits on when I can play,
But that doesn’t stop me.
I’m trapped,
What do I do?
Do I play till two?
Or do my maths, that is past due?

Gaming, the only thing I want to do all day,
And if I could,
I would.

Dust swirls and settles on the pointed tips,
Blades buried as a megaphone is raised to curled lips,
Eyes lock on shoulders, rising and falling,
In sync, in harmony, the perfect motion,
Thunder rips an open sky,
Shouts and screeches as the boats fly.

Up, down, up, down,
A circular motion, round and round,
Noise from all sides and a hot, humid air,
As water erupts from blades, a volcano at large,
All to no avail,
Nothing gets through this bubble, this veil.

We drive forward, collapse on the brink,
Each drives the other, a chain, a link,
A final push, nothing left,
Yet onwards, as like this we are at best.
Now the red buoys waver into sight,
Like a red banner sending a bull into flight.

Locked in motion like a gear and chain,
Like this, no movement is in vain,
Like gliding doves each boat strives,
But no eyes wander to catch the sight,
The line a push away,
No spectacular finish, yet no dismay.

Shining and glimmering shades,
Surround by dark grey fog,
Alone like something strayed,
Different like a misplaced cog.

Like a man lost at sea,
Like a hive without any bees,
Like a jungle without trees,
Like a pod with no peas.

A kid at Christmas by himself,
Santa without any elves,
Lost in the sand as a grain,
Leaving forever lasting pain.

Everyone trapped by a disease,
The outside just a tease,
No way to feel the breeze,
A social life just left to freeze.

An alarm clock dancing on the table,
A mindless man walking to the desk,
Sweet release as true as a fable,
Alone, blocked by a screen.

No one else to talk with,
The thought of freedom just a myth,
Rapid fear across the nation,
All this causing a self-isolation.

I remember the time when the beaches were wide,
The ocean was blue, vegetation was light.
The beaming bright sun peeks out from behind the clouds,
Shining on the clear waters like a candle on a mirror.

Greenery from the dunes reflects on the water,
Magical and majestic ripples flowing freely,
Until the sun peeks no more and the clouds surround it,
Gloomy weather comes forward as the clouds shadow the coast.

People become careless, no regard for nature,
Littering wherever, no real endeavour.
To preserve the shores where we love to play,
The beach becomes covered with debris and waste.

Winter arrives and a storm is brewing,
Rubbish on the beach is swept out to sea.
Animals are caught, ensnared by plastic,
Unable to breathe, you can hear their cries,
As they suffocate and die, there should be no compromise.

Destructive waves smash into the banks,
The dunes collapse like a house of cards,
The tide rises eroding the beach further,
And the shoreline narrows into a tiny corridor.

Slow and steady won’t win this race,
If we want to protect the coast, we need to pick up the pace.
Clean up our beaches and protect vegetation,
Just do what we can to help better our nation.

Fleeing away, surrounded by fires and axes,
For their habitat has turned into an inferno,
Wailing and crying, yet it still collapses,
As they look desperately at their foe,
They will fight and fight and continue to compete,
Despite the fact they have already suffered defeat.

As rare as blue diamonds, their eyes twinkle,
Attempting to use the trees as an umbrella,
Time flies by and skin starts to wrinkle,
Giving up these precious gems for one jar of Nutella,
The only thing we are doing is continuing to learn,
As we watch these masterful creatures burn.

But how could such forest just disappear?
As its size is as large as the Titanic,
But everything is not as it would appear.
Like an iceberg on the Atlantic,
We assume that only one species will perish,
But it includes many more that we also cherish.

In the future, tombstones will be all that remain,
In the future, the sea will be a swimming blaze,
In the future, diversity will not be maintained,
For we will be all that is left in a matter of days,
Something must be done about this now,
Or our ignorant citizens will continue to plough.

It all starts with a fingering,
A note, a chord, a pitch, or tone,
The sound is always lingering,
A noise that you just can’t clone.

When the sound hits your ears,
You can hear it bounce off the walls,
Like a ripple from a tear,
Or a splash from the falls.
When mellow sounds fill the room,
Just a simple note can shift the gloom.

Playing an instrument is the key to relief,
As holding a microphone brings a groove.
The cool touch of silver and brass,
The warm touch of wood from the past,
Feeling colours of red, blue, violet even maroon.
A touch, a feeling, that you just can’t tune.

That scent, that smell you can’t ignore,
It’s an aura, a spirit,
That delicate scent that touches your core,
It can be soft and sweet from what’s within it.
Sharp and strong through an aged mind,
Bringing forth a scent that you just can’t put behind.

That sight you see when you look across the room,
The gold and silver to bronze and maple,
Some shine bright and other more matte,
When the cymbals crash it brings up the chat.
The chat that grows louder as you silently watch,
The smiles and pride that you just can’t re-watch.

Playing a song, a tune or a piece,
Is like tasting the wonderful sensation of your favourite meal.
You can taste the change of tempo and dynamics that bring around that peace,
It’s that wonderfully pitched note that you can nearly feel.
You taste that note, that bar, that rhythm or verse,
It’s that taste for music that you just can’t reverse.

So, when you play that piece from deep in your heart,
Make yourself and others feel strong and sway,
Just make this masterpiece as priceless as art,
As you play your music and watch the sun set from the light of day.

A welcoming presence of nothing,
A freezing temperature – too low in the negatives.

Fierce winds howl, ripping over the valley,
A valley so empty,
Barren like a desert,
Undisturbed – unexplored.

The unknown lies above,
Opening a distant portal to the resting riverbed.

Tombs of ice hide the murky shore beneath,
Frigid water, gently washes sand back and forth.

Minute shacks,
Dwarfed by the towering mountains beside,
Like Giants roaming a city.

Fluffy clouds dance,
Snowflakes slowly sink,
Frosty specks of milky-white snow,
Tingling the tip of your touch,
A prickly sensation.

Ears are blue, hands frozen,
Stopped in the loop of time.
A place so quiet, just the world’s heartbeat,
Like being stranded on the moon,
Not a soul in sight.

To this day, I still think of the mysteries this valley holds,
Despite the environment,
Beauty and peace are still found,
Even in the depths of degrees.

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch,
A country of plastic that nothing else can match,
The deep dark secret behind,
Our sacred sunny seaside.

Towering corporations hide the fact,
That they are at fault for this monstrosity,
Money, money, money,
The single priority in such machines.

We’ve seen it before and we’ll see it again,
The yapping and barking we must put up with,
The constant denial of such criminal behaviour,
It’s time to make a stand.

Help, help, help they scream,
As they choke on our rubbish,
Their bellows pierce through the ocean,
Like a baby’s punishing scream.

They beg for just a clean ocean,
The one they had before we humans arrived,
A blue, crystal-clear, wonderful ocean,
Filled with millions of unimaginable things.

From whales bigger than a truck,
To tiny, miniscule plankton,
Our ocean protectors are dying,
And we must save them.

It won’t be easy to do but we must give it a shot,
We are nothing without the ocean,
Just imagine it,
Dead, lifeless water which traps us on our rubbish tip.

We must think about our youth,
To protect and sustain our beautiful ocean,
Which will be vital for human survival.

Remember:

Towering corporations hide the fact,
That they are at fault for this monstrosity,
Money, money, money,
The single priority in such machines.

We must stop this.
We must stop them.
Otherwise, the ocean will be gone,
Forever, and never to be seen again.

I stand alone,
The water surrounds me,
Upon the ridged rock where only the abstract algae warn the blazing sharp barnacles,
Adapting and resourceful in stature.
Ready for my task and watching the barbarous waves crash with immense force,
Only to be welcomed by instant silence.
Penetrating the immense depth far beneath the everlasting surface,
I drift peacefully with her as she takes me in and out of consciousness.
Listening to the crack of the abduct coral reefs and whispering of distant roars
My lungs flooded with oxygen,
I dive down and down, deeper and deeper I go,
I’m controlled by the emptiness of the blue glow.
Alone you start to forget the surface world,
Mirroring the creatures surrounding me I grab on to a rock,
Like a predator I wait and watch,
I have become one with my surroundings.
I spot my prey,
I aim my spear gun,
I execute the shot with extreme precision,
Sending a chill thud through the water into the abyss.
The spear hurdling towards the fish,
As if it was in slow-motion,
THUD.  Was the sound blessing my ears as it went through the fish.
The spear glided through the fish like a hot knife cutting butter,
It was a stone shot,
The one thing better than a stone shot,
Was the utter relaxion you felt swimming back,
To the surface world.
The burning desire for oxygen controlling your every movement,
I return to the surface.
The harsh outer world welcomes me with a beam of sunlight and a cold gust of wind,
Only to return to claim my prize under the sea,
In the abyss of blue.

Expansion, enlargement, extension
Empires growing, economic boom.
Colonies competing for the top spot,
Conquering land, jackpot!

Technology and machinery on the rise,
Death and destruction otherwise,
Alliances establishing,
Freedom and independence the new thing.

Trenches filled with rattled soldiers awaiting their demise,
Flustered comrades, staring into each others’ bloodshot eyes,
Mass genocide and chemical warfare,
What’s next to answer our prayer?

Loss of life, destructed earth,
Tanks, bombs and army depletion,
Leaders fighting for themselves,
They’d never stop till the world’s deletion.

The human race was never to end,
Friendship of all is what it intends.

From the rich earthen hues to her forever scarred tattoos,
All who dare look at her can no longer refuse,
The lull of a childhood crush.
Lush foliage creates her mane,
Her fringe, a canopy bathed in a thousand emerald suns.
The sight of her swirling brooks will only take away your lungs.
A million verdant pines shimmer, and dance in her arboreal air.
Braids of vine slither down the mountain crests,
Her beauty so powerful, it’s hard to digest.
The mountains and peaks only perk her figure,
As nightfall descends her beauty merely extends.
The sweet perfume of the forest will fill your nostrils,
Making you realise her grace and glare are colossal.

Born from the bosom of the beautiful figure, to life she brings a child anew.
Chosen by the heavens above,
The children were plagued with thoughts to subdue.
Lacking a mother’s touch, the newly born, sang songs of sorrow.
The weak had been culled, the chants of triumph no longer in view.
Plagued with the thoughts of bloodshed, to end,
They bellowed the songs,
Oh mother, embrace us before the other.

I have sent my blessings and my prayers.
Watching from above the plethora of despairs and affairs.
My children have reaped what they sow,
The consequences of their actions closely in tow.
Filling the heavens above with sounds of death,
Hoping their enemy’s voice their last breath.
Their forges blaze to dust, the embers gliding to places of trust.
There my children hope their frail frames can grow robust.
The whistling cuts of their blades roar through the air,
No longer being aware, all thoughts focused on despair.
Why must they do this you may ask, my dear?
But even to me these reasons are unclear.
Oh, my children, embrace me before the other.

Here we are bedevilled by ourselves,
Clasping hand in hand with the other.
A man who barbarically delves,
A scythe in one hand, our fate dangling below his cutter.
Convinced by his simplest of words,
Our armies of ruin become amassed.
The biggest mistake of history proceeds, for the sake of our selfish deeds.
And now we lay here, the worst of death has passed,
We bellow the ancient songs again.
Oh Mother, save us from the other.

The magnificent Eendracht golden highlights glowed in the sun,
The sails send us towards the East Indies,
A distant horizon soon expanded outwards to show itself,
Intrigued as we were, we sailed towards it without knowing the contingencies.

Soon the Albatross circled the sky and dived into the crystal deep blue sea,
The air is thickened by the spray as the sea crashes against the cliffs,
Passing around the cape we look for a safe place to moor,
The discovery of the land joyfully proved the world’s cartographers’ beliefs.

Docked in the shelter, the turquoise water lapped onto the beach elegantly and gently,
The shrubbery on the cape swished and flowed with the breeze,
The sand glowed a tinge of red which none of us has even seen,
Unlike back home the landscape lacks forests or trees.

Walking up the hill, we can only see the sea and land,
No signs of settlement, only the occasional rustle in the bushes,
Walking back, a small rodent hopped across the open sand,
The wind whispers like voices and wooshes.

Back on the ship we engrave a shiny pewter dish,
To proclaim our landing in the unknown land.
This would be our last night here before we near our departure,
And as I think of what shall come, I remember the company’s command.

Sailing off into the morning breeze we leave the land,
The spices we seek, a valuable commodity for us and the profit will be great,
Macassar is our destination for our intended trade,
And soon maybe we can return to investigate.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 7 – Seconds AFL – Surprise 3 Point Victory Against a Dominating Aquinas Side

 The highlight of the round against Aquinas goes to the 2nds football team.

This was going to be a tough game, with Aquinas having not lost a 2^nd’s AFL game for six years; the Scotch team, however, was determined to end this streak.

It was neck and neck for the first three quarters, and with only a couple of points in it, the last quarter was going to be a huge battle.

The lead continually changed hands. Scotch would get a goal and sneak in front, but then suddenly Aquinas would get one straight after, taking the lead. In the dying minutes of the game, Scotch was down by three points. The ball got kicked into our forward line and then, as the great football commentator, Dennis Cometti would say, “Like a cork in the ocean”, Saami Welsh popped up out of nowhere, grabbed the ball and kicked a beautiful snap from the boundary line soaring straight through the big sticks, placing Scotch just three points in front.

The ball got taken back to the middle, and with one minute left, Aquinas broke forward from the centre bounce, booting the ball out of the middle, right into the hands of their forward, thirty metres out, on a slight angle.

With thirty seconds left, pressure was on a poor Aquinas player as, if he got the goal, then they would win, but if he missed, they would lose. Aquinas’ six-year domination was going to be decided by this one kick. Fortunately for Scotch, the Aquinas player shanked the kick and the ball went out on the full, meaning Scotch ended up taking the win by just three points. What a game!

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 8 – First AFL – Goals for Max Della Franca

The highlight of the round last week against Guilford goes to Max Della Franca in the First Football team.

Della started off the game on fire, getting three goals in the first quarter. The Guilford team realized he was a big threat and they needed to lock him down if they wanted a chance to win, so they decided to match him up with top 20 AFL draft prospect, Rhett Bazzo, who is one of the best backman in the PSA competition. The Guilford team thought they had Della sorted, but to their surprise, he started the second quarter with the ball on a string. The Scotch midfield were showcasing an absolute masterclass, it was as if Della had ordered the midfield to deliver the ball to him like a perfectly cooked Uber Eats meat box, on time, every time. And the midfield, like 5-star Uber drivers, didn’t let him down.

The ball repeatedly landed straight on his chest. He would go back, and with his well-rehearsed routine, take the set shot sending it straight through the big sticks. It was goal after goal after goal. Della finished off the day with an amazing eight goals! It was a great team effort, with Scotch winning by 65 points.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 9 – First Hockey

The highlight of the round goes to the Scotch First Hockey Team.

The team was faced with a fierce opponent last weekend in Hale School. The undefeated, top of the ladder, Hale was the team to beat. With Scotch coming in as the underdogs, this was their time to shine.

Scotch and Hale both came out strong, and for the first three quarters the game was going back and forth like an intense game of tug-of-war.

Heave! Scotch got a short corner; the ball was whacked bottom left andddddd… hit the post.

Heave! A Hale striker fires the ball towards goal, which luckily is batted away by Scotch keeper Hamish Meston.

Heave! Monty Atkins lines up the goals for one of his deadly drag flicks, he launches the ball top left; a pre-empted cheer erupts from Mitch Hyde as he sees the ball heading straight for goal. Everyone else holds their breath. Ping! The ball hits the post, and rebounds back into play, millimetres from perfection.

Heave! Hale react quickly, with ten minutes left in the final quarter, they snag the first goal of the game. Scotch is down 1-0.

Heave! Less than five minutes to go and Scotch again has an attacking short corner. The umpire blows his whistle to signal that they are good to go. Suddenly, Oscar Bird makes a move, and like a sly little fox, sneaks forward, coming right to the top of the D. The ball deflects off the goalie’s pads, right onto Oscar’s stick! It was as if Oscar could tell the future and knew exactly where to be. He winds up, and smacks the ball, clean into the back of the net. The umpire blows his whistle, goal!

The game finished a draw, but it was quite possibly the kick start Scotch Hockey needed to be back on track for the season.

Thanks to Captain of Hockey, Hugh Mitchell, for submitting this highlight of the round.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 10 – First Rugby – Hayden Henschel Sensational Try

This week’s highlight of the round comes from the First 15 Rugby Team.

Scotch was versing top of the table team Trinity and having previously lost to them in Round One, Scotch was looking to make a statement in what was a season-defying game.

Scotch set the scene straight away, with Year 10 Hayden Henschel getting the first try of the day placing their score 5 to 0 up on Trinity.

Going into the second half Scotch needed to maintain its lead to come away with the win. However, Trinity worked hard and managed to get a try, making the score five-all with twenty minutes to play. The battle was on as each team was desperate to get a try in order to take the lead.

Trinity attempted to pass the ball long across the field to set up a scoring opportunity, but suddenly, out of nowhere, Hayden Henshell saw the opportunity, and while running at full speed, he came through like a rocket, intercepting the pass. Like a Ferrari 250 GTO V12, the automotive equivalent of the holy grail, Hayden clicked on the turbo mode and was off to the races, leaving the Trinity players like Commodores in his dust.

The crowd was screaming as Hayden ran and ran, placing the ball down for a whopping sixty metre try. With a great conversion shot from Tim Scheepers following the try, this score put Scotch over the line with a 12 to 5 win against Trinity.

Thanks to Vice Captain of Rugby Simon Arnott for submitting this highlight of the round.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 11 – First Hockey – Last 10 Second Victory

The highlight of the round goes to the Scotch First Hockey team.

Going into the final quarter, the score was 0 all, Scotch knew it had to put it all on the line for this last quarter if they wanted to take the victory against their rival team, Christ Church.

With a tight battle going all the way down to the last thirty seconds, there had been no score. 67 minutes of this game had passed without any team scoring, the tension almost tangible. The entire outcome of this game was going to be determined in the next thirty seconds, so every second counted.

Suddenly, Scotch player Rory King gained possession of the ball in a dangerous position.

Rory had the ball on the end of his stick, looking around for options until he saw Hamish Elliot sprinting up the line. With no time to spare, Rory smacked the ball to Hamish with enough speed it could almost break the sound barrier.

With his cat-like reflexes, Hamish spun, trapped the ball, and with his silky skills he weaved the ball through the defenders, like how a Scotch kid with long hair would weave his way through the teachers avoiding being told to have a haircut.

His eyes nervously glanced up at the quickly expiring clock, but then at the perfect time, he spotted Raff Schinazi running full tilt, screaming for the ball. With perfect precision and power, Hamish set up Raff for the ultimate deflection. The bench started counting down the final 10 seconds… 10, 9, 8.

As if it was a movie, time slowed as Raff hit the ball and it sailed graciously through the air, sliding past the goalie’s right foot, sneaking into the bottom left corner of the goal. The crowd erupted as Raff stood in disbelief.

Scotch won by one goal – what an incredible moment! Scotch was so stoked to take the victory back from Christ Church who drew with them by a goal scored in the last thirty seconds in the most recent time they had played.

Thanks to First Hockey player, Oscar Bird for submitting this highlight of the round.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 12 – First Soccer – Kaleb Morrison Scores a Hattrick

The highlight of the round against Wesley goes to the Scotch First Soccer Team.

After a disappointing 2-0 loss to Christ Church the week before, Scotch was eager to get a win on the board against a struggling Wesley side. After a shaky start from the Scotch team, Wesley got the first goal of the match in the early minutes of the game. Scotch needed a win in order to stay in contention for the Law Davies Cup, so this was not the start they were looking for.

The goal from Wesley, however, was the match that just lit Scotch’s fire, and the Scotch team started playing the house down.

Two quick-fire goals from Kaleb Morrison and Zephyr McPherson saw Scotch take the lead and finish the half leading 2-1. A dominant second half from the Scotch team was necessary. Declan Taylor took matters into his own hands and gave the team the energetic start they needed, with his immense tackling pressure and multiple bullet-headers, Declan had a strong case to not start on the bench for the next game – which would come as a surprise to the whole team.

Kaleb and Zephyr continued to dominate with each of them scoring again, putting Scotch in a comfortable 4-1 lead.

To put the final nail in the coffin, Kaleb got possession of the ball and realised he had the opportunity to get something many soccer players dream of – a hat trick. He saw all the Wesley defenders in front of him, ready to pounce on the ball, but he knew what he had to do. Like how someone would weave through the line at North Street store to get that last hot and scrumptious cinnamon scroll, Kaleb dribbled the ball through the entirety of the Wesley defence and whacked it into the bottom corner of the goal to end Wesley’s hopes of a comeback and to finish off a remarkable hat trick.

The Scotch First team ended up winning 6-1 in the end and this set them up nicely to finish a very strong season.

Thanks to Captain of Soccer Seb Reynolds for submitting this highlight of the round.

Assembly Sports Report – Highlight of the Round 13 – Amazing Staff Victory in Staff vs Student Soccer Match

The Staff Trophy Competition wrapped up last term, with one of the final events – the indoor soccer staff vs student clash. The highly anticipated game was between the victorious Cameron House team and the best team of staff that the teachers could put together.

I have never delivered a highlight of the round for the teachers, but the performance of those teachers on that magical day is truly deserving of one.

To start things off, Cameron House student Andreas Shultz opened the scoring. He did the impossible and managed to nutmeg goalkeeper extraordinaire, the Great Wall of China, Mr Kandiah, sending the ball straight through his legs. Mr Kandiah frantically tried to stop the ball but ended up falling on the floor as if he was about to perform a break dance for his famous Tik Tok account, The History of Money. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop the ball and just as a rare 2-dollar coin would slip through his change, the ball slipped through his legs and into the back of the net.

The crowd erupted, and the legendary commentators, Will Marshall and Ben Ramsden, went ballistic.

However, the teachers then wrestled back control of the game, with the Captain of the First Soccer Team way back in 2019, Gyles Davies dominating the play and scoring a classy equalizer.

Mr Orford extended the teachers’ lead in the second half, scoring an absolute stunner and then celebrating as if he just scored the winning goal at the World Cup. With the score at 2 – 1 to the teachers, the students really needed a goal in order to stay in the game.

Going into the dying minutes of the game was like a massive tuna bust up; every player was like a big hungry bluefin tuna charging towards the ball as if it was a little sardine, trying to smack it into the goal. Suddenly, like a huge marlin tearing through tuna pack, Brad Avery emerged with the ball and pierced a belter into the goal.

The scores were level. The final whistle blew, and the game had gone down to a penalty shoot-out.

Mr Kandiah as the goalie was under immense pressure, after conceding twice, the game was in his hands. But Mr Kandiah sure did make up for this slight mistake. It was as if he just transformed into Captain America. The way he deflected those soccer balls off his body was like the way Captain America would deflect bullets off his shield. This stellar performance from Mr Kandiah, with him saving 3 of the 4 penalty shots, secured the teachers the win. And that is why the teachers got awarded the highlight of the round. Well done, teachers!

The warm dirt underneath Buck’s feet was about the only thing that felt just right at the moment. It wasn’t too hot nor cold, too wet nor dry, it was the perfect mix. Better than the last implantation anyway, that dirt could burn cracks into even the blackest of feet. Buck stopped himself before his mind drifted off into the impossible reality of his real name and old life; he always stopped thinking to prevent remembering.

A crack of a whip followed by a painful scream interrupted his thoughts. A cracking whip was a simple sound that could mean a complexity of simple things; weak or strong, small or big, owned or owner, black or white. It all depended on the whipper and the whippee.

The scream came from one of the maiden’s, Julia. Usually, Buck gets used to the cries that followed the crack of Master Johnson’s whip, but Julia deflated her lungs like a banshee and bellowed from the heart not the skin. Julia was getting whipped because Master Johnson liked the way she screamed, not because she did anything thing particularly wrong. He was a crazy old man who owned the largest cotton field in the state of Tennessee.

“What she do?” asked Marty, a skinny young man who arrived at the field yesterday.
“Nothin’, I don’t think. Master Johnson just whips those who scream loudest,” explained Buck.
“Yeah? Well, I reckon Kentucky could hear her scream,” chuckled Marty.
Buck didn’t chuckle back; he was sick of Julia’s constant yelp and wanted her out. A bit of him felt bad because her back was so ripped up that it looked more like a mauling than a whipping, but mainly he couldn’t stand her.
“You mustn’t scream very loud then,” Marty examined whilst inspecting Buck’s relatively unscathed back.
“There are two ways you can live at this cotton field; as black man or as a slave. I may be black when talking to you but in the eyes of Master Johnson or any white man of Tennessee I am most definitely a slave. Also… I don’t like getting whipped,” explained Buck.

Marty didn’t say anything, he just stood there staring at Buck. He thought of how someone could give up like that, have no hope. Marty personally would take a thousand lashes and another thousand more just to get back to his family. They were still watching Julia.
“So, what’s your name?” asked Marty.
“Buck,” replied Buck after a long inhale and a short exhale.
“No, that’s your slave name, what’s your black name?” insisted Marty.
“I told you, I’m not…”
“Black, yeah you’re a slave I get it,” interrupted Marty, “but you said you’re only slave around the whites and I’m not white. So, what’s your name?”
Buck thought it through. He took his time and decided it wouldn’t hurt to share his real name. Marty was right, he was black around other black men and telling Marty wouldn’t be telling Master Johnson. But he couldn’t. It was like he had forgotten who he was prior to the last fifteen years.

The dirt underneath his feet was no longer warm. It was a chilling cold, but not the kind of cold you feel when you grab ice or go for an early morning swim. It was a cold from the inside. It started in his feet and crept its way through, freezing every organ, every vessel, every nerve. He couldn’t understand why. His own name. It wasn’t even on the tip of his tongue, the back of his mind. It was like his eagerness to stay camouflaged and behind the whip rather than in front worked so well that he lost all sense of identity. He wasn’t just a slave on the outside he was completely and utterly Master Johnson, of Tennessee’s largest cotton fields, slave.
“I-I’m not sure,” stuttered Buck.
“Oh, just tell me. For goodness’ sake, what’s your real name Buck?” demanded Marty.
“I DON’T KNOW! I just, I just can’t remember,” said Buck, with a look in his eye like he would never feel joyful again. He had no past, present or future. No name. A bodiless chicken.

Julia’s screams crescendoed with every strike. Louder, higher, and scratchier. Her cries glided from the bottom of her broken throat straight through Buck’s ears, like a mosquito you can’t shoo away or an itch you just can’t reach. The dirt was getting colder every time she opened her mouth.

Buck had stood by all these years being the perfect slave, the perfect slave. He picked his cotton quick, and he never disobeyed Master Johnson because he was scared. He feared that sound, that place, that whip. The place he didn’t want to look, where he never looked, the corner of his eye. The place he was never brave enough to check.

He allowed the mosquito to fly by without the own shred of self-dignity to shoo it away or scratch the itch. But fifteen years of fear changes you and Buck wanted revenge for it. All this time he believed in slavery, like the white men were more powerful, more intellectual, more deserving of the title whipper. But Buck was black, not a slave.

He walked to the whipping pole ready to conquer his fear. The screams increased in volume with every step Buck took. Master Johnson’s wrinkly old white grin was the largest smile he had seen in years. The dirt was no longer cold, it was hot, and the closer he got to Master Johnson the hotter it got. The heat crept its way through, melting every frozen organ, every frozen vessel, every frozen nerve.
Master Johnson’s head turned; they met eyes. Buck never looked at him straight in the eyes before and he knew why, that piercing glare reminded Buck of why he believed in a white man’s power.
“What’chu want Buck, I’m in the middle of something!” shouted Master Johnson.
“I would like you to stop whipping Julia,” demanded Buck.
Master Johnson was shocked, he had never been asked to do anything by anyone in twenty years.
“And why would I do that!” shouted Master Johnson with twice the volume.
“Because I’m sick of her constant screams!”  yelled Buck with thrice the volume.
“Well, maybe you’ll prefer your own screams, slave,” said Master Johnson through a smirk.

A crack of a whip followed by a sharp burn interrupted Buck’s retort, “I’m not a slave.”

Empty skyscrapers silently scratched at dark, smoggy clouds. Smoke plumed from exhaust stacks like an oily stain, permanently marking the grey sky above the expansive concrete jungle. Connor perched himself upon one of the millions of the ill-maintained concrete behemoths, searching the horizon where the lazy black sky met the skyline, jagged like the rotting of the corpses which littered the streets and buildings.

Connor moved his big blue eyes to the ground hundreds of feet below him, kicking and swinging his legs beneath their torn, dirty tracksuit pants. The virus had been around since his seventeenth birthday. He vividly remembered the nutty smell of July’s morning rain, gently crashing on the grass hills of Memorial Park where his grandfather lay in the war cemetery.

He reminisced on a world where skyscrapers didn’t tower over sad faces and a world before the virus. He caught Coronavirus before it mutated into a death sentence and now, he was part of a minority which was immune to the virus. Few others who weren’t immune had survived, got away, and the immune had turned to an anarchist society.  At the age of 25, he was in his prime, but lacked any combat skills and strength. He would survive only by scavenging.

The generators pumping black soot into the morning sky were still burning away, so he caught the lift to the lobby of the abandoned office building. The elevators opened to flood him with the familiar stench, a putrid metallic aroma from the bloated carcasses in the lobby and on the streets. He’d grown used to the smell and walked out of the lobby. He noticed he was hungry.

Connor kicked and dragged his worn out, lifeless Nikes to an apartment building he’d never seen before. Pushing his way through a heavy revolving door, he instantly noticed everything. The air smelled different. It lacked the horrible stench of the victims of the virus; it smelled clean. A cool draft wafted through the room from an air conditioner. Connor followed the marble stairs around the reception desk at the back of the lobby to the first floor, hoping to find some sort of food. He assumed the lights and air-conditioning had been left on from when the building had residents, before the virus. Connor turned a corner on the large staircase and was stopped dead in his tracks.

A tall, old man in a white lab coat hurried around a trestle table in the hallway of the first floor. He hadn’t noticed Connor standing on the recessed marble stairs. The man was carefully syringing a clear liquid into small bottles. Connor didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if the old man was friendly or not. He took a step back around the corner, but forgot about the staircase. He gasped loudly before falling down the hard marble staircase. Connor lay on his back facing the staircase in shock. The man soon came hurrying around the corner, his white lab coat being carried by his momentum and swishing by his legs as he peered down at Connor from the staircase.

“Are you alright?” questioned the man, taking off his glasses and making his way down the stairs slowly.
“I’m fine,” Connor spat out anxiously, “Just stay away. I’m sorry I interrupted you I won’t come back…”

“No stay. I need you!” interrupted the scientist, his wide grey eyes beamed excitedly as he lent a hand down to Connor to help him up.
Connor squinted at him, confused at what the man had said. “You need me? What for?” asked Connor curiously.
“You’re immune, right?” asked the scientist.
“Of course, it’s why I’m alive. Aren’t you?”
“No, I’ve been looking for an immune person for months. I need you.” He lowered his voice, “You are a cure.”

From within the little second-storey apartment everything looks to be completely and utterly typical. Two little children ran from the kitchen through to the living room, laughing and screaming as they go. Smiles with missing teeth cover their bright faces. Close by sits their father, tired, but content, he sits laid-back in his armchair. A beer in one hand, the TV remote in the other, crumbs covering his steadily growing belly and a three-day stubble that is slowly going white. The sliding door that opens to the balcony is locked shut and dust on the door handle shows that it has remained that way for some time.

Three quick knocks on the front door spark movement in the children’s father. His back cracks as he rises to his feet for the first time since this morning. Click……… click……… click. He yawns as he unlocks the door. A light creak echoes through the apartment as the door edges open to let in a hooded, masked figure holding grocery bags that have tears beginning to spread from bottom to top.
“Mum!” both children scream as they run to the door. Both boys cling onto each of the woman’s legs as she struggles to make her way to the kitchen bench. She ruffles the boy’s hair, takes off her mask and collapses into the chair her husband has recently been sitting in.
“Tired?” the man asks whilst giving her a light shoulder massage.
“It is chaos out there. Supermarkets are full of people; there was barely any food left on the shelves. Oh, and also, we have no toilet paper; there wasn’t any left.” The woman rubs her eyes, slowly takes off her jumper, and begins to cry, quietly, so her boys don’t hear.

“I’ll get on to dinner. Boys! You can come help.”

“Ok, Dad.”

The two little boys fly past the living room. They never seem to walk, nor be further than one metre apart. The mother cracks a teary-eyed smile as their little heads bop by. Her weary eyes begin to ease shut. Slowly, she lets out a big sigh, until her eyes are completely closed.

The next morning, the whole family is awoken by the news. A three-week lockdown is inevitable. A global pandemic has changed the world. Schools are closed. You are not permitted to leave your house for any longer than one hour a day; and Tom Hanks is infected. The boy’s father looks out of the window onto a nearby street. There is complete silence. No traffic. No people. Shops and markets are closed. Snow has begun to fill the sidewalks and streets. The only evidence of human existence is the structures left behind.

In the kitchen, the mother is on the phone to her parents, both in their sixties. She sobs as she tries to explain to them what she doesn’t quite understand herself. In the living room, the father is on the phone with his work colleagues whilst simultaneously on his computer, emailing staff. The only other sound in the apartment is the TV; the journalist is reading the number of cases for that day. The boys appear confused and upset, they are unsure as to why Dad looks so stressed and why Mum is crying. They look from Mum to Dad, left to right, like spectators at a tennis match. Both Mother and Father simultaneously hang up their phones and let out a big sigh. Silence engulfs the room.

Suddenly, one of the little boys gets up and grabs his mother’s hand. He begins leading her to the living-room couch. He sits her down next to her husband. The other little boy runs to the kitchen, grabs some popcorn and some lollies from his mum’s secret hiding spot and runs and jumps onto the couch.

“How did you find -” the mum begins before she is interrupted by the TV being turned on by her son. Turned to full volume, the Disney opening animation lights up the living room, its famous music engulfs the apartment. The boys snuggle up to their mum and dad. The teary-eyed mother looks to her husband and they both begin to smile. With their boys and each other, there is always hope.

Everything was going to be ok.

I travel in the wind, when the sun doesn’t shine, and I make people weep when I sound my chime. The sound of my sail flapping in the wind as I travel and leave, yet my anchor stays in. It grasps to their soul, heart and thoughts and plays with their brain and they pray for the day when I cast away. Their blood spills into my vial and I drink it like wine as I laugh at their demise and see them waste their time. They may fall and lose all hope, and resort to the clouds, out of my smoke and when they’re gone, their family will cry but I don’t care because I travel in the smoke when the sun doesn’t shine. The sound of my sail flapping in the winds as I travel and leave yet my anchor stays in.  I am the Tide Traveler.

There once was a boy who I passed who I remember. I casted away just as I do with my sails cutting the air like a guillotine to skin. My mast soars through the dark, smokey sky as I pass through a neighbourhood which catches me by surprise. So many houses shine with light, like a meadow of daisies in a bright summer’s light. As I turned to leave, an unsuccessful voyage, I see a light, and to my delight, it’s not very bright, so I cast my sails and head to the hull and laugh at what’s about to be done. I sweep away, boom flying in the wind, and I grin at the win I am about to receive. As I entered the room, I saw this boy’s face. He had sunglasses on which shone in my eyes like a lighthouse beam.  The reflection burning my skin. Why was he wearing sunglasses when the sky was black and grey? I turned my boat around, yet the light still glimmered. The light was following me. Could he hear my sailor songs or the snap of my boom? Had I not poured my dust through the wind? Had my magic not worked through the spells I do? I anchored, the chain falling deep into the smoke of the windy waters. These waters were tough, the waves crashed like a seismic earthquake you can see through, and the sun glimmered on the waves with whitewash which swirled in patterns of a Van Gogh masterpiece.

As I brewed a potion in my vial which would release this boy’s desire to live, I noticed something. He was staring into my eyes, the glare piercing my eyes. He was waving at me. But how? What was in his glasses? When he took off his glasses, his eyes weren’t glassy like the rest, a tear not falling from his cheek into the pool of death, the pool of sorrow and mental regret. See in all my years as a sailor of the wind and sea, no one has ever looked at me the way he did. His eyes glimmered white like the snow yet grey and his eyes darted in disarray, yet he wasn’t sad. He was smiling. His eyes although grey shone a million shades of light and his smile also shone bright. He was smiling. I stood at the front of my boat and glared at him, how could a boy without vision see me. Not even a microscope with a lens able to see the cheese on the moon could see me. I’m just a part of the wind. So how could this boy see me?

As I was holding my vial to pour on him, he spoke to me and said words which I will never forget. He told me he’d seen me before in a dream of his. That I passed through the wind when the sun hid in the smoke, and made people weep at the sounds of my chime. He knew about my stories and old sailing chants, and that the spell I put on people made them feel unwell. He knew that I was here, he could feel it he said. Although he has no vision, he could hear the waves crashing as I anchored my ship and felt the wind flow through him just like my sails. He knew I made people sad, mad and wanted to end their suffering at last. He knew of my stories and that I made people cry, suffer and weep and feel that there’s no hope, no yellow brick road He knew that he was about to be a victim of my spell, yet he didn’t hesitate. Then I dropped my magic down into the wind and he inhaled, still smiling. This boy’s light was dark, he didn’t have hope, his sight lost, mother gone, dad a drug addict, yet he still smiled whilst he inhaled my fumes. My magic hadn’t worked. I called out to him and asked how? My magic was perfect, one of a kind. Why didn’t it work on him?

He told me of struggles and fights and when nothing gave him delight. When his light was so bright that it gave other sailors fright, yet then one day that light caught a fright and left him for just a day. However, that one night was all it took for his light to get lost, although he had no light, no purpose, no shine. He worked to find one and in his efforts he stumbled upon writing. Writing stories of his past, present and peculiar moments within his journey to find his delight. As he wrote he felt his light come back, turn back on, regain energy. But he told me that his light doesn’t stay, nor does anybody’s, and that light comes and goes just like the sun and moon that we can’t control. Even when it’s dark there’s always a light. Everyone has a purpose. He told me to think about myself, to reflect on my life. He opened my eyes to the person I was.

After the boy and I talked, I sailed away. However, still to this day, I keep this message with me on my journeys and I pray that when I drop my vial, this time with only a letter to every house that’s dark, their light comes back and doesn’t get a fright, for everyone deserves to have a light as bright as mine, enough to put other sailors at fright. For I’ve changed and now have a life worth living, just as everyone should have the same chance. A message I leave to those in the dark, I hope brings them light in all that’s mean in this cruel, cruel world:

For once a person saw me not as a brewer of depression, a creator of sorrow, a wizard of despair but just a passerby in the wind, a passing through his mind. For emotions are thoughts as thoughts pass like the wind. The wind and swell can be strong, strong enough to cause a wave, yet the wave always must crash, returning after to a state of calm content. Just like our thoughts or feelings may be strong and make us crash, feel disconnected or at unease, and if they do, know that just like the waves and wind, emotions are always moving and changing. Crashing and banging yet still often returning to a state of content and whilst we can’t always control that as things happen, things change, yet know that life still goes on. For emotions change just like the wind and the waves and some days the swell may be bad, however, a sailor as good as me still navigates through the wash and swirl, and eventually finds a part of content, when the wind is my friend, and the waves move softly. So, my advice to you my friend is to learn to sail through the wind and the waves, through those journeys where you may be scared or feel at unease, because after the storm, there’s always a rainbow.

The sea – she moves with such grace,
A plethora of blue and green
Touched by the breeze, like lovers’ first kiss.
A landscape so flowing in its enormity,
As endless a mass as the heart to be explored.
Warm in parts, stone-cold in others, but never ceasing,
Where wonderful, beautiful creatures thrive.
At times her waves will roar,
At times her ocean will scream,
Of sadness, sickness and sorrow.
But – when night comes, the sovereignly moon
Effortlessly pirouettes upon her glistening water
Healing what needs to be healed, reminding what needs to be reminded,
So her tranquil waves can sing for another day.

‘The Church Mice’ weep and ache as the priesthood proclaim,
That salvation supposedly succours their malevolence,
Oh, how this abuse escapes its warranted shame!
For I thought this Church praised such omnipotence?

The children’s deafening silence echoes loudly through the field,
And stripped of their innocence and wellbeing and beauty,
This godly purity they no longer yield –
Before this horror, just living was their duty.

One comes to wonder how macabre this world has become,
Where rapists can freely live excused of repercussion,
Yet these children have to live with everlasting pain,
How is eternal agony dismissed by this corrupted institution?

Their flowers no longer blossom
Their minds no longer free
Their hearts now ever lifeless
Their souls, victims of the clergy.

Darkness, silence, lights of the night
Giants of the cosmos drifting by,
Oil spills of rainbow leaks
Infinite stretches, seconds, weeks.

Gaping in awe, iridescence streaks
Pitch-black beauty, astonishment peaks,
An atom of colossal gods of the skies
Surrounding mountains, glistening eyes.

Onto the left, the cratered sun of white
Pale beams shine through trees of blight,
Rustling leaves, owls grieve
Rivers trickle, nature heaves.

Insignificant and small, I look afar
Comprehension fails me, while I stare at the stars,
And the rivers, the mountains, the wrinkled blanket of trees
A leaf in the wind, billowing in the breeze.

And a leaf in the wind, I shall forever be.

I stand at the cusp, gazing over the edge.
No matter the power, no matter the will, I lie at
Her mercy. For mother nature is unforgiving,
I know that well enough.
I have withheld my love, yet still I seek for assistance.
The wind roars in my ears, screaming all I wish not to hear.
For I am a conduit of her will, and I see now
All there is to fear.

The very vessel I stand in, a craft of her soul,
Forged from her body, ripped from a hole.
The iron, the steel – all truly her own, from which she
Cannot heal. Crafted into a bird, yet unparalleled
To the true. For this small, pathetic bird, migrates not from the blue.
It contains its own heart, one beating a mechanical pulse,
A pulse loud and crude, insulting to her mastery.
Despite our engineering, our calculations,
Our skill – she may swat it from the sky – a fly on her windowsill.

So, as I gaze towards the unknown, my saviour on my back –
I ask to mother nature, please have for me some slack.
My legs over the edge – I breathe out
Mother nature’s air – our sustenance, her gift.
I let myself go, for holding on tasks the mind.
A drop at speeds foreign – meteor penetrating the sky.
Yet the heart says what the brain does not,
This is where I belong.

My stomach absent from my torso, I send one last prayer –
It floats across the skies – its spirit everywhere.
A lurch, a pull, my saviour comes for me –
The mother has answered, our connection
Stronger than fate waiting below.

Once intense, now serene. The plummet becomes a drift.
The same wind which pushed me around,
Punished my ears and my bravery,
Now carries me home – to a mother with arms outstretched.
Nature, it seems, has forgiven. Nature has learned to love.
Perhaps that’s all we humans need – a push over the edge.
The situation dire, the reasons infinite,
A universe within the smallest of seeds – all we need do is plant it.

He told me of an endless oasis,
Both prodigiously hectic – and serene,
A mosaic of flora and fauna,
Less a jungle – more an intricate machine.

‘Twas once pure, now corrupted,
Interlopers from the West,
Institutionalised the uninhabited,
Unwelcomed holy guests.

A structure stood tall within a faux glade,
Nature – disregarded and dismantled,
Abolished as if were plagued,
An inferior burden – to such hollowing.

The imperfections were conspicuous,
Although songs relentlessly filled the air,
The sanctum’s flaws went dismissed,
Songs of oblivion – without care.

Now does she feel free at such young age,
After a dozen years of force-fed instruction?
And while the time spent, she looked to turn the page,
But the new approach needs more than introduction.

Is this new chapter slowing down time?
Can it be her lack of adolescence?
Does she miss the free familial feel?
As she struggles for little innocence.

Now she sleeps underneath a sorrowful sky,
Now she needs a ray of sunshine,
Now a golden drop with some extra on top,
To tumble down through lonely happiness.

Her hasty sordid is the last shove,
For the sunlit drop will cost her eternal,
A trip to the motherland she sells her love,
And spends it sitting beside the hurdle.

Broken is the seal of body to bed, realisations sweeping,
What façade can be mustered, mask donned,
Questions of self-worth arise, left unanswered
a sense of belonging vacant,
What must I live for if nothing is living for me,
No missed calls from old acquaintances
Heartfelt messages from lovers,
Simply a means to an end.

Death provides sweet relief for the torment of reality,
No longer a necessity for deceit, just honesty,
Within nothingness lies consolation,
No one to appease, or console, simply me.
Selfishness or rather self-love?

Therein lies no feeling of force, but instead inevitability,
Comfort within the certainty afforded by death
Alike the final chapters of a novel
Kings and Queens, happily ever after.
There need not be worry, simply acceptance,
For the preordained is inescapable, the conclusion of existence.

Holy are the final times, a finish line in the sand,
Cherished are the reminiscences,
Community and connection in loss, appreciation of what endured before.

Before the end.

Cricket, a sport majestic, elegant
In theory it inspires devotion,
Its craft is one of passion, emotion.
Green Grass, blue skies, warm days – joy prevalent.
A game of beauty requires much patience,
Men forfeit their power in pursuit of runs,
Selfish sport. Nay! A game for gentlemen.
Its nature of beauty tempts those who wield.
Yet, anger, failure, pity, frustration, regret
My dear Cricket, you can inspire my hate
Watching from the stands, depression is my fate
Might of men is weakened as pickings turn sour
Gods! We hath need of thee, cricket onsets
Pain and struggle, not worth playing, I labour.