The Old Prison
Judith Wright The rows of cells are unroofed, a flute for the wind's mouth, who comes with a breath of ice from the blue caves of the south. O dark and fierce day: the wind like an angry beeread more
View ArticleSouth of my Days
Judith Wright South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country, rises that tableland, high delicate outline of bony slopes wincing under the winter, low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping...
View ArticleRequest to a Year
Judith Wright If the year is meditating a suitable gift, I should like it to be the attitude of my great- great- grandmother, legendary devotee of the arts, who having eight childrenread more
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