‘It is the most humble day of my life,’ Rupert Murdoch
Beech trees, in full leaf, more than a hundred years
high in the park a street away from here,
rise sheer like raggedy cliffs, a last hurrah
of pragmatic philanthropy – like Rome
before the fall – amid the indifferent
splendour of empire: town halls designed
like palaces, museums like town halls.
It dies spluttering in Flanders mud, choking
in dugouts on Gallipoli’s cliffs.
Rupert Murdoch’s dad,