I sat, tense, with increasing horror,
and my mind returned to
my childhood days in the church choir
when, every Sunday,
the pallid line
from Dr. Barnado’s
trundled into the morning service,
sat emotionless
mute
then crocodiled back to “The Orphanage”.
Memory plays tricks.
I had completely forgotten them.
I don’t recall ever talking to any of them.
We only saw them Sunday mornings,
their drab uniforms,
tight faces,
military supervision
an impenetrable barrier.
I never questioned who,
or why,
or where from?
And then that haunting film.
Were some, again, my neighbours
here down under
and I still didn’t know?
A different stolen generation
Same impact
A distant bureaucracy
Innocent and defenceless children
Who cares?
Oranges and Sunshine.
Some sales pitch.
All those years ago,
from the distance of the choir stalls,
they were a blank canvas.
The film proposed
some terrifying sketches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem