Once an Academic
This is the time of year, late spring, 

when, fast as I could, I'd leave
the last examiners' meeting – results sheets
signed, our students' fates sealed – 


and slip away (stern colleagues 

resumed their stubborn research)
to the car-park, thence near the river,

leaving the car in a shady place


with most of my clothing, search out

along tracks by the gum-tree-lined banks

my current favoured secluded spot,

check on my solitude, unlikely



to be disturbed, and strip off

(but for dark glasses and sun-hat),

wade slowly in, toes tentative

in cool mud, the river flow



rising against my thighs, embracing

my waist, my chest. Should I lift off

and float? maybe down to the next line

of rocks that angled across the stream?


That could be delicious, and the rocks

made fine sunning spots, full-length.

Or – brace against the current,

edge my way right to the other bank,


climb up through sedge and clay,

reaching for a wattle branch

and lever myself up and out.
Spring’s first butterflies hovered,
bees fumbled the wattle blossom,
bell-birds rang through the valley,
my big book on poetry, or even
a small book, deferred itself again.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
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