Everyone has their own clock, but no one can really see or knows when the clock will stop for them. Some don’t even want to know when their clock will stop, happily living in ignorance as those around them watch their seconds fly by them.
All covered up in a brown nest I learned to call a “chrysalis” / And I could spell it too: C.H.R.Y.S.A.L.I.S. / And she told me that patience had power, That the caterpillar in the chrysalis would turn to goo and then into a butterfly. And all I had to do was wait.
Some weeks ago, we asked for your help writing a poem that could capture all the uncertainty, incredulity and "strangeness" of the past 6 months. Introducing These Times Are Strange: A Collective Poem!
The Penny Mint acknowledges the land on which we work, perform and reside: on Boonwurrung, Woiwurrung and Wathaurung Country. We extend our deepest gratitude to the elders and ancestors who have told their stories and sung their songs on this land for more than 60,000 years. We acknowledge that this land was never ceded, and no treaty has ever been reached. This always was, always will be Aboriginal land.