Published in Overland Issue 244 Spring 2021 · Poetry A tale of two crowds Joel Ephraims 1. A group of bronze teens are partying under an unclouded day moon facing off a clouded sun in the corona pandemic. Making complicit an eroding sea cliff whose cliff strengthening is paused with witches hats. Their boom box almost whispering. They look huddled, wavering in the unspoken uncertainty that they are potentially doing something catastrophically wrong. 2. Further down the stretch of beach, water closed because of four metre great whites attracted by a rotten whale quartered into a truck only a day ago, a white family of three stand vigil. Dressed in their best scarves with chests proudly puffed. Their best Lowes coats. Even having broken feud with the unpaid hound race debts of the bristled uncle. A scrap of the carcass that made the panel on The Project or just a fin of one of the great whites that dwarf speed boats. As though the sole guests of a jubilant wake or the only three secretly ushered to attend a hidden NRL grand final with scalped tickets. Read the rest of Overland 244 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Joel Ephraims Joel Ephraims lives on the south-east coast of NSW. He recently had a suite of poems published in The Red Room Company’s The Disappearing. More by Joel Ephraims › 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 1 11 April 202511 April 2025 · Poetry Final results of the 2024 Judith Wright Poetry Prize Editorial team Overland, the judges and the Malcolm Robertson Foundation are thrilled to announce the final results of the 2024 Judith Wright Poetry Prize. 4 April 20254 April 2025 · Poetry Water music Gary Catalano Even now / its black waters / are tanked ’nd / safely intact. Pour / seeds or syllables / back down that throat / and all you’ll hear / are scattered ping-pings / on an iron roof.