Yesterday Sergeant Chris Hurley
Walked smooth hair and broad-shouldered from the courtroom.
His stride was confident but his nostrils
flared ever-so-slightly
his face flushed the crude red of triumph
by the all-white jury.
But Mulrunji is dead.
Left to bleed his severed vessels
into his own body until
his life ebbed away
in the red flow.
Did you hear the low sobs of past thousands
echo in the island watchhouse?
And are you watching, Australia?
(What a clever trick)
Because we all got off
when Hurley got off.
@auth poem = by Laura Ealing
Politics of Justice
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