Reading Dad's poetry is like taking a walk through his life. It is easy to see there are demons, but there is beauty and love too. Beauty in memories of greyhounds, raging fires, the plight of Indigenous people, the complexities of religious beliefs, and recognising the power of other people's life stories.
I remember sitting in the back seat of his car, listening to him speak of Shakespeare and reciting sonnets verbatim. He spoke of Keats and Eliot, of Yeats and Poe, and Yevtushenko and I did my best to comprehend the images of tragedy, love and loss. And now, many years later, when I read Dad's words, I think I understand them.
