And we don’t get that everyday around here. Don’t get threatened with annihilation by an isolated hermit kingdom dictator.

And the way I was watching the morning fog curl on Lorn Park when I heard the news bulletin on the radio outlining the chill warning that had been sent across the cold sea.

And it was a curious juxtaposition: an easy floodplain Sunday, soft and gentle - Macca on the radio, cup of tea, Maitland magpies on the nature strip, kettle simmering, tea brewing, toast toasting and all that. And then, into the dreamy river-town bliss comes the madness of world politics, drunken power and big-gun brinkmanship.

And the floodplain’s a long way from the Korean peninsula. I mean you can’t see the 38th parallel from the footbridge over High Street Station. And yet, they reckon they can get to us with a mad bomb, sent in the night perhaps, sent to reprimand us for choosing our own friends, sent to admonish us and all that.

And it’s hard to believe that the world somehow owns nuclear bombs. I mean, attached to every missile, is not only a terrifying destruction, but a deep, deep stupidity - and that’s right.

And across the kind, sweet hours of last Sunday, I was thinking that the dear leader might think otherwise about torpedoing us if he understood us better - if he knew the best bits of how we live a round here…

If he knew that here, beside the river, we were in midst of a warm sweet autumn and that the grass was soft and green and that kids were running barefoot across parks with dogs and balls and squealing with delight - if he knew that we were more interested in that stuff, then maybe he’d think different?

If he knew that we mostly like sipping tea and coffee and reading books and playing sport and making art and going to the movies, or if he understood that we’d much rather look at the farms and fields as we glide across the Harry Boyle Bridge than the nightly news - if only he knew that.

If he could join in a friendly funny yarn at Pender Place, across a back fence in Tenambit, or over a cold beer at a Morpeth pub, then maybe he’d step away from the edge.

If the dear one went with us for an easy drive to the bay or up to Vacy, with windows down and music and gumtrees and little wallabies and freedom; if he had a few hours to have a barbecue at a Rutherford shed, and eat snags and damper from the side of a forklift under the forever sky, then I reckon he’d know we just wanna live in peace.

And maybe if the dear leader sat with us awhile down on the riverbank and felt how the river runs through us, then maybe he’d know us after all - and that’s right.

And so it goes …

Goodnight.