On Sunday mornings Jack goes down
The river with his bag,
A long trek from the little town
For feet that scuff and drag.
Old Jack is nearly ninety one,
His face as rough as bark,
His rheumy squint shuts out the sun,
His love lives in the dark.
And round the river’s final bend
Where sweet meets salty wave,
He kneels in she-oak bush to tend
His Martha’s simple grave.
He empties out his bag of flowers,
Puts daisies near the cross,
And settles by his love for hours,
Rich in what some call loss.
- Mark Allinson was born in 1947 and was raised in Melbourne, Australia. After working and travelling overseas for a number of years, Mark returned to university and completed a Ph.D in 1989 in English literature, and taught for six years at Monash university in Melbourne. He now teaches part-time on the remote campus of a regional university, south of Sydney. Since 2005 Mark has been writing poetry and has published many poems in small magazines, online magazines and anthologies.