poem

A city of churches,
fast becoming restaurants.
A place of new restaurants,
fast becoming closed.

A clutch of car races
beckoning . . . the motor heads
and the beer drinkers,
from all over down under.
Beckoning,
from all over down under.

A festoon of festivals,
from which staid Adelaide
stays home.
Beckoning, from all over down under.
From all over down under.

The Saturday morning
croissant 'n' coffee
capital of the universe,
when The Family meet at Lucia's,
bringing a hug and a smile
to the mingle of market smells.
Everybody looking good, good, GOOD.

You too.
Though you hold yourself tight,
not looking at me.
Holding your hand near my face
once or twice,
but not touching me now.
Beckoning,
but not touching me now.

Even the ten day stay
is too big a trial
in these transient times.
Transient times . . .
for the Festival State,
for the Festival state of mind.