With Arabic and Chinese in the Auburn street
And a Market Plaza smelling like a chargrilling souk.
With halal and shisha and sandalwood
And a railway station washed in human colours.
Where is our Auburn in Anglo Saxon speak?
The hedgerows and horse and buggy air?
I’m standing in the park towards midnight
What ghosts can be summoned now, there?
Is that sighing not the lowing of 24/7 traffic
Or the arc of a low flying jet before curfew
But the heavy-breathing dance of the original inhabitant?
In a song-totem that once only the coots and the parrots
roos, wombats , tree bears and snakes
had a mind to accept – as a guardian not a scourge.
Far from the lurks of rogue spirits from Rookwood
or the peacocks in uproar at the art of the gallery
it’s the song of regret for a relic shorn of purpose
lost midst the fervor of data and wi-fi.
On this last vestige of grass
In a park at midnight
My naked feet its tentacles gently exploring
Liberty in its authenticity – finds harbor.