The Director’s nickname was chilly –
genial about most things
but arctic if deference wasn’t paid.
He’d come to the district a few years before
from head office
to the leased block
getting the farm when the will was read.
Successful : station well above his ideas.
There were stories,
but he was never prosecuted,
never charged –
able to retire several pay grades to the good.
Ghosts – loyal and quiet. Silent.
He knew which cogs to oil
who mattered
and who didn’t.
Who was impotent
and who could be defamed –
a man to be listened to.
He told me to fit in
and
to be seen fitting in.
Not a function went by without my attendance.
It was written on their faces
lips curling,
“rent a crowd
he’d turn up anywhere if there’s a drink on offer.”
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry 