by Jeremy Gadd

In Sydney’s Domain, where, pre-war,
in nineteen-thirty-four, eighteen thousand
once listened to the warnings of Egon Kisch;
where, on Sundays, Webster promoted
free speech and would-be politicians,
proselytizers and the deranged stood
and harangued gawking crowds, hecklers
and the impressionable from milk crates;
debating the benefits of democracy,
the booming or bearish economy,
promising Marxism or Lucifer could change the world;
that Jesus would bring ever-lasting life;
that lizard-like humans controlled the ruling class
and Macquarie Street’s decisions were a farce –
young office workers work-out while on
lunch breaks, hoping exercise can delay
time’s decay, and all is subdued and sedate.
Some skateboard by, others throw frisbees,
which spin as high as the meristem
foliage of the towering palms,
bursting like flak above the canopy of
the Moreton Bay fig-trees while cars
reverentially crawl along Hospital Road
and suited men carry coffees and stride
towards Parliament House or the courts.
There are some clouds in the far distance
and, as the bright sunshine fades and the
afternoon chills, the still air seems foreboding.