Melbourne
A pathway along the river
leads to where its waters widen
into the bay, an armada of small boats
tug on mooring lines and beyond,
rising up out of a reflected sky,
the city sends golden spires
high into the evening air.
It's more than just a place, a city
compounded of asphalt, concrete
and plate glass, parklands with trees
from countries overseas that read
the changing seasons with green,
red and yellow. Sprawling suburbs,
cafes and coffee, all just a part
of a greater whole where I live
and is home to me.
Not some sugary, thick spill
of a patriotism born of a shallow pride
is evoked here, no boast of better
but a calm, silent sense
of connection to the spirit of the soil
and what grows here, what is built
upon its spread and more, those I love
who walk across its breadth.
The soul must have a space
to house its presence in this world,
somewhere to relate to, to grow in,
be part of and after being away,
to return to and rest. There must be
something sacred to nurture
in the cradle of its ground, a love
that holds back the harm of greed
and the elevation of the self.
There are other places, sure, equal
if not better, some that have
more charm or come near,
but I am thankful
that I draw my breath here.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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