A fairy-tale unfolds
Where trees hold a cathedral
And a rose window makes the cicadas sing.
A thousand stares stitch into sequins,
Tears suspended in the ladies’ gowns.
‘The Emperor of Russia was my father’
Reaches across the city;
While Hermione waits for judgement,
Fork lightning cracks the rumbling sky,
And a dry storm scatters into pearls.
Sicilia’s stone-steel heart
Turns to green and pink,
Red, gold and blue;
Thrones and courtiers,
Shepherds and kings,
Made and self-made men,
Wave hope over the stage.
The frisking Clown
Catching our smiles,
Like dancing stars,
Throws them to the juggling,
Ballad-eating Autolycus,
Who washes out prose
With swallowed fire.
Leontes’s grief
Stretches into spring,
Pushing up the dark earth,
Awakening our faith.
In the morning I watch
Sparrows scavenge the skip,
While stone spills down a broken step,
Framed by corrugated grey
And the black, polished glass
Of the Crown Plaza.
Our pastoral is overtaken –
Somewhere on the freeway –
A gap of time filled up
By the roar of road.