The Poet of Parramatta
I am Parramatta,
her hopes and her dreams.
I am her people,
who laugh in the pubs,
who slouch off to work
and dance their way home,
or maybe dance off to work
and slouch their way home,
tired from the day.
I am Parramatta,
uncomfortable and uncertain
as to who she will be
as she grows up,
or quite sure of herself
but bullied to be different
by her uncaring parents.
I am Parramatta’s
reprobates and refugees,
her winners and losers,
her newcomers and old hands.
I am her young and her old,
her criminals and coppers,
I am her thinkers
and her dreamers,
and her people
who don’t think
or dream at all.
I am Parramatta’s
streets and her creeks,
her river and her weir,
her parks and her squares.
I am Parramatta
in drought and in flood.
I am Parramatta,
her cloud-laden sky,
her sunny days
that make her concrete
burn if you touch it.
I am Parramatta’s
shoppers and workers,
her drinkers of coffee
and drinkers of beer.
I am Parramatta,
who drinks nothing but water,
and never eats meat,
but I am Parramatta
when she is euphorically
eating a lamb roast and potatoes,
stir-fries or curries,
drinking Pepsi or beer,
wine or whiskey,
and washing it all down
with a small glass of water.
I am Parramatta’s
graveyards and birthplaces,
her First People
and her last.
I am Parramatta
of a million colours
and no colours at all,
bible black as the night,
as bright as the sun.
I am Parramatta
and share her DNA.
Her blood’s in my veins,
her stories in my mouth.
I am the poet Parramatta,
recording her past,
writing her present,
and creating her future.
I am Parramatta,
and Parramatta is me.
