My father spent most of his adult life <br />working for the Commonwealth Public Service, shunting files <br />from one end of his long desk to the other. <br />When he died he left half-written <br />a History of Australian Immigration, <br />only half-joking when he willed that I should finish it. <br />Why didn’t he tell me <br />how little would ever be completed? <br />letters left unanswered, accounts not settled, promises <br />never fulfilled, the parts of that motorcycle <br />unreassembled, lying ten years <br />on a concrete floor in Westgarth St, people <br />dying without warning, mid sentence, <br />taking the next words with them.<br /><br />David Brooks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/without-warning-6/
