Except for harbour shores stolen and bought
For the great and good and their acolytes —
Ornaments to vocations of cutpurse.
They dub it a star of the universe —
Its inner suburbs lucky satellites
Destined to orbits of adoration,
Blessed by blistered tarmac burned by parades
And asphalt alleys and squalid arcades,
Where wealth sneers at the rest of the nation.
Out on the fringes, where livestock trains steamed,
There’s light so fiery it seems it was dreamed
To be doused by summer’s stormy raindrops
Amidst croaking frogs’ joyful jamborees.
Here it is that winter brings frost and freeze
And pallid suns blush foggy blue hilltops.
There are trundling fields and forever yards,
Space for madcap games and children’s follies.
Gardens bloom and shops stock chips and lollies
On streets of strive lined with homes of diehards.
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