POSTCARD FROM BRISBANE

“Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” – Seneca

I was in Brisbane for work today and it made for a long day considering I was on an early flight going there and a late flight coming back. Commuting about 1500 km a day can be rather tiring, but more than anything it is getting to and from the airport and on/off the plane that really piles on the hours. The actual flight time is the least time-consuming… Nevertheless, I got much done and the main purpose of the visit which was regulatory was successful.

The weather in Brisbane was gorgeous after a cold morning. Sunny, clear blue skies and a temperature in the low 20s. Back in Melbourne it was a gray, cold winter’s day with a top of 13˚C. I can certainly see why many elderly people choose to retire to Queensland. Mild winters and lots of sunshine! I even had the opportunity to enjoy some of the sunshine as a couple of the meetings I had were at an external venue.

For Poetry Wednesday today, a “travel” poem by Hilaire Belloc. The rhythm of this poem is wonderful and the descriptive title says it all. Despite the jocular beginning and the driving rhythm, the poem towards the end pauses and descends into introspective and nostalgic resignation with the doom-laden words: “Never more”…

Tarantella

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in –
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

Hilaire Belloc 1870-1953