• Time to read less than 1 minute

On the way there, I barely notice cars
stuck in side streets or bikes swanning past,
their riders calling out: Don’t drive to the festival!
Green, white and red flags are wind-tossed sentences
sailing above the roofs on Great North Road,
free from punctuation. A winter-blue sky frames
the small stage, where one boy and many girls
dance Alice & Co in a hip-hop Wonderland.
Queen of Hearts struts, steers Red Knights –
pepper-red and salt-white. While we applaud
a man turns to me with proudest eyes: The boy’s mine.
Later, at the big stage, a band plays ‘Azzurro’.
The afternoon elongates desires, as in the song.
Too – or so – blue and long, depending on the translation.

 

Share this and help promote amazing Aussie writing.

About the author:

Fleur Beaupert

Profile picture for user email_registration_zSKPauSk3Z
Fleur Beaupert is a Sydney based poet. Find her on the web at fleurbeaupert.com.

Popular on Brain drip

Office Jetlag

Profile picture for user email_registration_q29dHSJAdT

His face was trapped in the ceiling tiles above my computer. I stared at the roof, feeling the bile rise up in my throat. I hadn’t noticed it at first. The line on the bottom could have been anyone’s smile, and the two black dots among the white plaster could have been anyone’s eyes. But after he had leaned over my desk the first time, shouting at me, I stared at the ceiling tile straight afterwards and ever since pictured the outline of his face every time I looked at it.

Closer In

Profile picture for user caitlin_prince_1

You show up in Parnawarratji and try to arrange the single loop of sealed road, the vacant red dirt lots and the dotted housing with massive metal cages on the front, into a ‘community’ in your mind. It isn’t what you were expecting, but then, you didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not so much sky, arcing over the horizon, the line blurred by a hazy fringe of spinifex grass.