South from Belconnen

By | 29 June 2008

The sign among the trees says City,
points into drifts of sclerophyll and scrub
to a fanfare of parrots, crickets, cockatoos.
There's a scenic drive up a hill, a kiosk,
a carpark, a view. There's a museum, no make
that many museums, of the sort you can enumerate
in a bored voice to bored visitors. And restaurants:
so many squares per head, fly-by-night chairs
and chefs, the patrons appearing grey however
they dress. And houses, packed in ever denser
as they radiate, the last few roofs pitched
cramped on yellow terraces, yellow lawns.
There's blow-ins, public servants, retired same
and other disconsolate lifers. None admits it
but their ceaseless complaints, voiced to currawong,
galah-song, give the place its little sense of home.

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