I go back in thought and dream
to the little city
in the isle of mountains,
the steep streets (icy in winter)
the white water down The Gorge
and the park with the wallabies.
I walk the half-moon curve
of the Quadrant
to Birchalls bookshop.
That was in the days when every bookshop
had a huge stationery department
up on the top floor.
In Routledges, small metal money-bins
whizzed along overhead wires
from upstairs (office)
to downstairs (shop).
Right at the top of long Wellington Street
was my house, where I grew up.
I lie in my bed by the high window
and listen to my father, out early,
pruning the roses.
A blackbird is singing.
I am four, I am eight, I am turning twelve….
A sunny day begins.
Note: This Launceston is the one in Tasmania.
Poem submitted 10 Dec. 2011 to Poets United's Thursday Think Tank #77 — The City.
Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)
They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.