Published in Overland Issue 245 Summer 2021 · Poetry Wanala sunset Declan Fry Spring, seeking the fresh collapse of everything, not least this evening, and the effort of buildings (every cornice and eave) fails to eclipse the vaporising midges, serrated rows of eucalypt trees. Insects sing in full-throated susurrus, refracting light- seared wingbeats, constant and arrhythmically pulsing. I am caught here licking spiderwebs of sugary white soufflé lerp, loping across streets that bristle and purr with browngreen biyula, pavement like the colour of leaves curling in midday’s heat, while one of Brunswick’s infinite collection of Schrödinger’s cats asserts a sidelong gaze, thinking somewhere bells toll. Wanala, and my neighbours are taking a crash-course in aviation, hanging from second-storey heritage apartments clad in yuppie pastel. Glass and cement, mouths of bubbly cradled like precious metal. The light dives, capsizes: long slow approach of evening raking its hand across each blade of grass (the end of the week arrives with precision, dog-eared, remorseful, slumming and tilting its nightward course). Almost every home now advertises Black Lives Matter So these visitations matter, too. This Triple R station where Gorrie and Morris commune on Sunday: Everything is telling me this. Sunlight oscillating across the pavement, a man perched on a stoop at Nicholson, his kids tailing the unpredictable dribble and sway of a basketball in the half-diminished light matter, or nothing does. This afternoon, this walk, this back and forth of breath against cement. We heard their voices echo, once, alive and caught in the continual conference of seesaw and stutter, the offence and the defence, endless etched cement-relief messages imprinted in granite-grey curb as the birds sang out their last word negotiating the watchhouse over Meanjin where a permanent sunset now falls, never knowing for sure if it will rise again, but trusting that it could. Read the rest of Overland 245 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive Declan Fry Declan Fry is a writer, poet, and essayist. Born on Wongatha country in Kalgoorlie, Declan Fry has written for The Guardian, Saturday Paper, Overland, Australian Book Review, Liminal, Sydney Review of Books, Cordite, Kill Your Darlings, Westerly and elsewhere. His Meanjin essay “Justice for Elijah or a Spiritual Dialogue with Ziggy Ramo, Dancing” received the 2021 Peter Blazey Fellowship. He has been shortlisted for the Judith Wright Poetry Prize and lives on unceded Wurundjeri country with his partner and their cat, Turnip. @_declanfry More by Declan Fry › 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 First published in Overland Issue 228 8 September 202312 September 2023 · Poetry Poetry | Games Heather Taylor-Johnson Days pinch and lately I’ve noticed every time I look in the mirror I’m squinting—maybe it’s a grimace. Without trying I’ve mastered the façade of a Besser block threatened by a mallet, by which I mean maybe the world won’t kill me but it’ll definitely hurt and I’ve got to be ready. First published in Overland Issue 228 31 August 20236 September 2023 · Poetry Verbing the apocalypse: Alison Croggon’s Rilke Josie/Jocelyn Suzanne ‘This again?’ and ‘why now? Why not years ago?’ are the two questions raised in each new translation of a non-English piece of Western Canon. There’s an understanding—of course a poetic cycle like the Duino Elegies is incomplete in English, there are endless new readings—and a simultaneous sense of wounded pride/suspicion: what was missing the last time around? What were you concealing from me? What are you concealing now?