the immigrant

A poem written in 1975 to an Australian friend who came from the middle of the Northern Territory, to explain an English experience of a different landscape.

My spaces are those of cathedrals

growing from the earth, man made

Old like the earth but speaking of minds

sonorous with voices

lifting the spirit hight to a heaven of geometric beauty

And, beneath one's feet

thick foundations of age

vaults of dusty darkness

Tomes, mysteries of the dead

Acres of walls rising high

Avenues of columns, trees of man

whose dead leaves are fragile flags of battle

Man is old and ever present

close and warm in the dust of his death

in the spaces of his left behind makings

Not rocks of earth but rocks of man

monumental stones

Spaces from his mind, built for celestial journeys

How beautiful is the age man

rounded warm and constant

I have been, I will be, I am here

I am the foundations, soft dust, solid stone

but I soar like the vaulted ceilings

tracing the heavens with my mind

But, come now

come in from the outside

pass through the heavy doors

Bring flowers, fruits of the earth

and hear