Men around a submarine
moored in Sydney Harbour
close to the end of wartime
showed us below, down into
their oily, mesh-lit gangway
of bunks atop machines.
In from the country, we
weren’t to know our shillings
bought them cigars and thread
for what remained of Holland’s Glory:
uniforms, odd, rescued aircraft,
and a clutch of undersea boats
patrolling from Fremantle. The men’s
country was still captive, their great
Indies had seen them ousted,
their slaves from centuries back
were still black, and their queen
was in English exile.
The only ripostes still open
to them were torpedoes
and their throaty half-
American-sounding language.
Speaking a luckier one
we set off home then. Home
and all that word would mean
in the age of rebirthing nations
which would be my time.
