Edition2

by JO McINERNEY Noise and smell, the dip and rattle of trams on tracks set in bumpy tar. The clang of bells and swell of voices in a lingo grim-faced women did not approve. The language of the Pope but…

by JO McINERNEY Walking these streets hunting the past. Not seeking mum’s lipsticked smile or dad’s stiff creased fedora. Instead looking for the waving acres, wide paddocks where skinks flickered and giant goannas forced a path. The sunny fields where…