Before the lights come on

Infinity comes in threes

The circus

Sydney Rd. Brunswick

The difficult years

Eight, nine and ten

Heading home

36 Views of Melbourne Central. No 31

From Newlands Rd. North Coburg

Going to seed

Omar Bin El Khattab Mosque

Church St

Holy Protection Cathedral

Listen and you'll hear God calling

The Pelaco Factory

The Long Long Long Black Limousine

Sydney Road. The slow lane

Red brick wall

End of the line for the idiot box

The green green grass of Seymour

Unfinished project

Barbed wire fence

Goulburn River at Seymour

Soft and gentle rain in the distance

St Andrews Uniting Church. Milawa

Great plumbing in Manly

Doom and gloom

Legal

Down and out in red and black

An empty pack of 25

McPhersons Building. Collins St

Rathdowne St

And the day passes by

Railway Buildings. Newport

There's nobody home

Left behind

Rusting in the mud

The photographer, a boy and his kite

Grandstand at the Wangaratta Racecourse

36 Views of Melbourne Central. No 30

From the Maribyrnong River. South Kensington

The Troll House

Someone's pride and joy

On the banks of the Maribyrnong River

Railway bridge across the Maribyrnong River

James Reyne is taking care of business

Iceberg

Fairlight railway station

Birds in a tree

Blue in Akaroa

Alpine Lodge

Anzac Day 2010

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori
It is sweet and honourable to die for one’s country.