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.
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