Burwood Park
Several ladies armed with
fans, or swords
perform their kata in the gazebo
at the point of the morning
we unwillingly early risers call
too soon, while they gather the momentum
swing the day along for everyone
and an operatist gives out an aria
under the arch of the war memorial
thanking God for the victory given
so long ago, remembering the dead
who were never there to realise
we won.
A noisy mynah squeals randomly
as shoppers pass to and fro and
an anguilline garden hose
goes across the grass as
the council worker approaches the
s & l facilities
without trepidation,
with rubber gloves on
an aria filling his ears.
Gala Days
These were gala days
when the rain was thick
the sea all grey and full of bullish seals;
when the children kissed each other
and tore snapdragons from their beds
gaily...
Couples strolled with umbrellas, hats
and walking canes,
removing their dentures to speak
more softly,
full of smiles, of niceties
and faith.
The parks were filled and the ponds
were not,
black swans wintered in the mangroves
and estuaries
and one warm autumn night
the corpse of a drunkard drifted
by
as your father-in-law sat fishing on the wharf.