Doubt has been expressed that the beauty and sylvan charm of Alexandra Avenue can be preserved if, with the building of a new Yarra bridge at Swan Street, heavy commercial traffic is diverted into the Avenue.
Within the wooded avenue I stood, And I was proud. I looked upon the scene and found it good; For here, I vowed, Reigned Beauty rare. Sweet praises filled my mouth For this, the loveliest city of the south; Yet not a soul could hear, Altho' my lyric praise with fervor flowed; For, as I spoke, there rumbled down the road A lorry-load of beer. I tried again. I spoke of civic pride, Aesthetic joy. With those rare phrases, culled from far and wide, Poets employ. I waxed in aphoristic ecstasy, Hymning the loveliness of sky and tree; Yet not a single soul Gave heed to me; for sudden thunders grew As round the bend there lumbered into view A waggon piled with coal. "Goths!" I exclaimed. "Did you raise Beauty here In this green place But for the sport of flinging coal and beer In her sweet face?" A large truck missed me by a hair's-breadth then Manned by a crew of large, unlovely men Who jeered and darned my eyes. "Vandals!" I shouted. "Nay, repent your sins!" Then leapt again to dodge a load of skins That smelled unto the skies. Still on they came, truck, waggon, rank on rank, I dodged, I leapt; The threw myself upon a grassy bank And there I wept, Wept for the city ... A park-keeper came, A mean, ungracious man, who took my name. "O man!" I cried. "Alas, See how I weep. Must beauty disappear?" Said he: "Buzz orf! You can't do that there 'ere. Spoilin' our nice noo grass!"
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2002-07|