A poem reworked for a future local poetry slam. Title is the theme. Feel
free to offer suggestions.
Daylesford & Hepburn Springs - made in heaven
A bristling block of almost city,
either end of Daylesford eases off to country.
In between comes clobber, cafes, art, books,
a white-tiled butcher's, glazed pottery, mopchoppers,
furniture chic, two-storey bank buildings
and the rump Rex theatre, up an arcade.
Two fountains splash and glisten,
one down the post office end, the other
near the mower shop, viewable
from a corner table at the Taj.
And always, Wombat Hill looms over
The Convent's grey balconies.
Brick-red kissmequicks, agapanthus spears
and squadrons of bluebells burst from the soil,
Swiss-Italian planted pines, elms, red oaks and
copper beeches share gullies and steep ridges
with flaky mannagums, candlebarks and cedars
all the way to gentle Hepburn Springs.
Chimneys ease woodsmoke at dusk,
horse poo sells at the side of the road.
Trains trickle to Bullarto just once a week,
ivy advances on fading guest houses
but pubs survive and even kick on.
Score rissoles at Merv's Savoia, singalong
at the Old Hep or gush to Simon at The Goat.
Cheer parades at Hep's Swiss-Italian Festa,
and Daylesford's Chillout and New Year's Eve,
where locals take to the streets with gusto;
stilted Sprung Circus girls, mounted knights
in armour, brass bands, lavish LGBTQI's,
share bitumen with tractors and fire engines.
Black ice slicks up roads in winter,
the cold seems to go on forever,
no takers still for the vacant Palais,
the General store sells out of sourdough bread.
But rainbow flags flicker in the breeze.
Can towns be made in heaven?
bw
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