Glebe
The very sound of it,
The mouthing of it,
Puts a smile across one’s face,
A pang of loss across my heart:
She used to live here with her mother,
Intermittently, in between lovers.
I used to walk her and her dog
(Who fancied himself a contender
For the track at Wentworth Park)
Along its quiet shady streets,
Populated with tall Jacarandas.
Purple carpet underneath our feet.
Past the murmurings of Victorian mansions,
Federation lodges, workmen’s cottages.
It’s always hard to find a spot to park your car
Along these narrow, neatly terraced streets,
Unless you are the fortune-favoured one,
Appointed by Hemera, anointed by Nyx.
A stick’s throw from Victoria Park,
Followed by a frenzied chase up flat stone steps,
Lies that venerable institution,
Baking in the midday sun;
Its hallowed halls of learning,
Filled with brains both young and old,
A hive of activity collectively pushing
The envelope of knowledge
Further, and further yet afield.
We descend from the high-browed libraries
To browsing bookstores filled with thrillers,
Pop romance, New Age cures and promises
Lining the side of Glebe Point Road
Jostling for space with rowdy cafés
We find a table outside Badde Manors, park the dog,
Imbibe chai latté and the pithy social comments all around us:
I couldn’t imagine Gleebooks anywhere but Glebe, voiced one,
I couldn’t imagine Glebe without Gleebooks, replied the other.