What with the allusions I've been planting,

here's a fine coincidence! The Tempest on

in Launceston.

(Mrs M launched out of Sydney

into storms; bolts of lightning shook the wings

when I took off from there).

In the opening scene

sou'westers, heaving ropes, woofered winds

drowned the poetry and I slumped back in snootiness,

more so when Prospero like a terminal Gielgud led off

with fruity tremors and Miranda too zealously twitched

at every word; then Ms Ariel's see-through nipples

and tippy-toe walk! But when Ferdinand, bereft,

lamented the King his father's wrack, the play began

to move in every sense and when those lager-louts

Stephano and Trinculo bounced on it was uproarious circus

and I was i’ th’ isle for sure.

(Mrs M adored theatre,

produced plays in Hobart. Remember The Masques

of Christmas in 1866? Not with ivy garlands —/

Not with shadowy yew—/ Not with holly berries/

Ruddiest of hue:/ But with Summer's wealth of Roses

In the noontide of the year,/ Ripe corn, sweet fruit

and posies/Crown we our Christmas here.)

No tongue! all eyes! Revels, Mrs M.