LETTERS - The Messiah by Rail

Nor-westerlies have desiccated spring,

the forest floor just tinder,

primed for lightning strike.

Days feel longer than they should,

tanks near-empty.

El Nino threatens with squinty days

and hovea seeds pop open in the heat,

remembered sound of yesteryear

when boys with air guns

shot fat pigeons.

The morning springs wide open,

hot as Hades.

Time to descend the rutted track,

with fearful rear-vision

farewell to weatherboard.

Speed down the twisty range

and board the Gympie North

heading southwards,

rather slowly,

but right on time.

Stark and ancient sentinels

guard this thirsty land.

Tibrogargan looms ogre-like

and careless remnants of orphaned scrub

slide by to shade the snakey rails.

Woombye, Eudlo, Mooloolah,

Beerwah, Caboolture.

old names for modern stations

come rolling off our tongues

like native plums that fall

each year on forest floors.

Tourists in cool carriages

bow like penitents

over handheld screens

as if in grateful prayer.

Today they worshipped

at altars of the slithery,

furry and feathered,

but social media

has not abandoned them.

Somewhere south a steamy city lurks.

Might cross half Europe in the time

to reach that haven of biting insects,

where girls parade in scant clothing

and a languid python river

curves and curls its way

to the great Pacific.

Carriages slide on hot steel

and the western sun belts down,

scorching tender seasonal growth

in remnant forests.

Surprising, shocking now

to witness the brutal assault

as mean suburbs march north

where fragile stands of melaleuca,

casuarina and ancient pines

are sacrificed to the gods

of greed and need.

Shoulder to shoulder look-alike homes

now rise from desecrated land

like cohorts of battle-weary soldiers.

Boxed-in families cohabit here

with hungry air-cons and

rooms festooned, ironically,

with the sparkling trappings

of a snowy yuletide.

The western sun probes snoozing

passengers on the Gympie North,

as it slows and the city skyline

shimmers through the afternoon haze.

Within reach now, the brown river

and its steamy burbs.

Passion vines strangle back fences

and chooks scratch in the dusty yards

of humble weatherboards,

with their peeling paint,

tin roofs where, strangely dark,   

their alien solar panels rest.

There’s graffiti on factory walls,

a freewheeling urban kind of art,

to help define the aspirations

and the vigour of this Brissie.

See Jacaranda’s fading purple,

a sober signal of mass exodus

when the carefree young feel free

to play a dangerous game

of Russian-style roulette

with melanoma, sand and sea

throughout the blazing summer.

The river anticipates its final surge to the bay.

A hint of salty breeze ruffles the surface

and lightly fingers mangroves

along the muddied banks.

Here a modern city cocks a snoot

at the seasonal threat of floods,

and dares its cultural heartland

to thrive on the water’s edge.

And at its beating heart, a concert hall,

where champagne-sedated

and greatly relieved to be cool and comfy

the faithful give an approving nod

to the efficacy of seasonal ritual.

The orchestra tunes to the oboe’s “A”,

a call to action, while backstage,

sopranos check straps on gorgeous gowns

and a baritone fingers his neat moustache

muttering a profound ‘behold and see’.

Choristers all in black

now file onstage in sober mood

and carefully climb the risers.

Resplendent, the soloists

stand poised and nod due respect

to Maestro as he proudly

makes his entrance.

Now…with baton raised

The Messiah!

Hallelujah!

© Leila Meredith - remembering one very hot Christmas