Jack

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. 
 





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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.