Poems (Forrest)/Sydney
SYDNEY"God! What a place to write in!"—The Triad.
Short streets, funny streets, twisting to the sea,Broadening out to tramlines and the muddle of the Quay,Lanes of lurking twilights with a smell of mystery.Old boats, new boats, rocking at the rimOf a magic ocean. Orange lamps grown dim,Hunter-street is full of fog . . . choking to the brim!
One step down . . . a musty shop . . . hats, and boots, and bags;Neath the sign of "Wardrobes Bought," where the roadway sags,Vice has cast her satin gown, Virtue left her rags!On the stone-cracked window, focused like a star,Darts a shaft of sunshine to a yellow jarSpirited by genii out of Africa!
In the spidered corner, pale as dying leaves,Looms the portly outline. There some prisoner grievesDreaming Morgiana and the Forty Thieves!Posters on the pavement, women at the kerbs,From a hidden garden sudden whiff of herbsWhere a roaring southerly sleeping buds disturbs!
Mocking Maori idols in the wide arcade . . .Or a blue-eyed baby with her black-eyed maidWhen the doves are cooing in a rustling gladeAnd the bright geraniums flank the Gardens' gate . . .Or a tragic harpy with a mouth of hateSlinking where in darkness Lust and Murder wait. . .
Portly dames in crackling silks, thin lips overwise,Gliding by in motor-cars of a mighty size,Paris gloves, expensive shoes, avaricious eyes. . .Fluted roofs at Mosman, South Head's swinging lights,And the lure of laughter in the summer nights,When we twist hot scarlets thro' our day-time whites!
Sun-flecked paths at Hunter's Hill, boughs across the sky;Time in muffled sandals shuffling slowly by,Piling records, resin sweet, where pine-needles lie. . .One sail flashing westward on a sunset cruise,In the hush of midnight, little clicking shoes . . .Or the pad of naked feet out at La Perouse!
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The nectar of magnolias, the sob of a violin,A dawn-wind sane as virtue, a night-wind sick as sin,And a year-round wide-set window to let the dream-folk in!