em = By Thomas Faunce
A chill wind, not the spirit of Australia,
Blows over manicured lawns.
Winter leaves scratch like hansard on the footpath.
Wires tinkle on flagpoles like spoons in teacups
Currawongs warble like a factional brawl.
Trees here are the real repositories of tradition
And the soul
Is the National Library.
The powerful are seasonal.
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