Song of the Cicadas

The cicadas sing where the Australian bush exhales its summer heat, and in that suspended moment between sound and silence, Roderic Quinn found his voice. These poems capture the strange, luminous quality of the southern landscape, where light falls differently and the earth seems to breathe beneath your feet. Quinn writes of golden wattle and dust-white roads, of faces glimpsed and lost, of the particular loneliness that haunts the edges of cities and the depths of the bush alike. His verse moves like someone walking through tall grass, pausing to notice what others miss: the way a bird lifts off, the last light on a hill, the weight of years passing. There is no grand declaration here, no straining for the profound. Instead, a quiet insistence that beauty, if attended to closely enough, becomes its own truth. For readers who trust in stillness and have learned that the smallest things carry the deepest weight.