Published in Overland Issue 231 Winter 2018 · Uncategorized Runner-up, Nakata Brophy Prize: revolve Susie Anderson I first noticed it in England, or perhaps it finally found me. I had assumed all this time I was being watched and here was proof. Clear halo in deep navy, shining iris nightly, no stars. Second time the orientation was more natural, immense. I walked to sky’s edge where town stops. Lay underneath stars low and heavy enough to reach. The bright wanting more. All moon all the time, the third time. Celestial ceremony captured in ochre. Made it not one but two, three, four eyes that follow, even by day. That old one walked the earth before there was moon. Held a torch and created the day, never made it back to her son. What will we do if we lose that fire. Finally we learned how it worked. Did we move or did the moon. Or was it both. Anyway we drove towards it that night. It was super, and the next one will be blue. Read the rest of Overland 231 If you appreciate Overland’s support of new writers, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Susie Anderson Susie Anderson uses words to reconnect with culture. A Wergaia woman from Western Victoria, her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in The Lifted Brow, Rabbit Poetry, un magazine, Artlink Australia and she was part of the anthology Growing Up Aboriginal in Australia. Recently, Susie was a writer-in-residence at Overland. More by Susie Anderson › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 22 May 2026 · Friday Poetry Judas goats Caitlin Maling Because goats can climb / and cave, clamber to find cover / in the bushes of what they can’t eat / which isn’t much. 20 May 202620 May 2026 · Reviews Are you experienced? Louis Armand Pam Brown’s poetry has been described as both conversational and deeply layered, its historical consciousness seemingly belied by a fragmentary, diaristic style. An easy comparison might be drawn with the work of her long-time friend Ken Bolton, which often achieves a sense of over-arching unity of vision expressed in monologue form. Bolton’s work can appear exhaustive — long prose-like stanzas — where Brown’s seems to flicker down the page like dawn through the mangroves on the drive to Cronulla.
