Four Nights and Three Days in Port Fairy
1.
Arriving at dusk to a new cottage (rented
sight unseen), we spread ourselves
light-headedly, a mere couple in a place
that sleeps eight. Here for the folk festival.
Lowering blinds upstairs we look out
between grand Norfolk pines.
Both sides of the River Moyne, tall lights shine
on placid water, elegant pleasure craft
moored in two straight lines.
At dawn I walk the stone breakwater
from the moored yachts and fishing vessels
each with a steady reflection,
to where the river widens, a sign warns
Not to Make a Wash; another mentions whales.
Lines of pines, gargling song of magpies.
The dredge rests at anchor, its black-with-white-stripes
serpentine pipe curves across my path.
The ends of the two breakwaters
are manned by pairs of anglers.
Beyond, far over, the modest light-house
points east - where the cloud cover
considerately parts and first light
pours goldenly down on the sea.
One small boat buzzes quietly seaward
(no wash), passes the last speed sign,
revs loud full-power, leaving a wide track.
Whale-road without whales in March.
Names painted on a paving-stone:
John & Max. I turn back and near the park
with its battery of cannon which deterred the Tsar
from invading in the eighteen-nineties,
I try John¹s number. Yes. they¹ll come down.
2.
Folding chair dangling from your shoulder,
at the entry you must flash your wrist-band.
Lines of stalls press alternative life-style¹
products, rainbow everything, all-natural.
Guinness occupies one large tent,
a winery the other. Bigger are marquees:
Stage One, Stage Two, Stage Three,
thronged by thousands unfolding, settling.
Here the big names tune, test, are introduced,
perform. Has she ruined her voice since last time?
Has he not learned anything new to sing?
Old songs please old folkies, can they please new ones?
From ten a.m. till midnight act follows act.
Did we choose the right stage? Move on round;
stagger away, all music-ed out.
(John and wife, fresh from Rachmaninov in town -
taken in moderation - have made it down.)
3.
The beach at morning facing east is tame,
shells crunch underfoot. One angler stands
waist-deep casting forward into the swell.
One dog commands the entire beach.
Trudge to the festival, sink into one¹s seat.
Coffee scorches the hand, rouses the brain.
Music courses in the blood.
Crowd-pleasers one needn¹t clap.
In the smaller venues there may be
intimate music, maybe not.
In the instrument-makers¹ tent
the mysteries of craft: wood and string
under trained fingers combine and sing.
On the street into town, buskers busk,
fire-jugglers juggle, crowds circle.
Buskers may be pre-school, untutored,
charming the coins out of our pockets,
or choirboys: Dona nobis pacem,
backed by the Guinness tent pandemonium.
4.
Monday morning¹s farewell concert:
American veteran John McCutcheon
drums jazz out of his blue-jeaned thighs;
brings on, to read a poem, his old friend,
Rita Dove (as laureate I could look down
on Congress and the Supreme Court too¹).
Her poem sings just enough to win applause.
He teaches us all an old Russian lullaby:
may there always be blue sky,
may there always be sunshine,
may there always be mama,
may there always be me.
A thousand voices raise it high.
10.45 pm, Wednesday March 16, 2005
Max Richards, home one night from Port Fairy, Victoria
[Janis Ian sang too]
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