It’s twenty years of Sydney to the month
I came here first out of my fog-bound south
to frangipani trees in old backyards,
and late at night the moon distorting palms.

Even then the Cross was crumby, out of touch.
I was too timid for Bohemia as a style
or living long in rooms in dark Rose Bay hotels.
All one night a storm flogged herds of Moreton Bays,
for days the esplanade was stuck with purple figs.
The flying boat circled for hours and couldn’t land.

That was the week I met Slessor alone
walking down Phillip Street smoking his cigar,
his pink scrubbed skin never touched by sun.
Fastidious, bow tie, he smiled like the Cheshire cat:
“If you change your city you are sure to change your style.”
A kind man, he always praised the young.