Robert Verdon,#192, All was Future Then

thirteen

down from the country capital

in Sydney alone

dizzily peering up at tall buildings

fresh off the bus, hope

an opal between its treads

down by Circular Quay

billboards for Dewars Whisky

and Red Mill Rum

ferry to the Zoo, mind

taut as a canvas sail

no one at all bothered me

the battens were set

at last, I was free

it might have been Dublin

sailing through

ideas for great architecture

architecture as frozen revolution

tall as the bald towers

and the sky jigsawed by rooftops

into silent oratorios

I might have stood unknowingly

not far from where Henry Lawson

(whose book I had from Uncle Jack)

once stood to cadge pennies for drink

and with some inkling

of being a poet

all was future then,

though not just for me.