Only in Oz is Elgar called

a bloke! G'day, Sir Ed!

I'mtuned in to brightn-

breezy Classic FM

in Launceston — a Specialist,

says the visa, an amiable

grey-bearded British poet,

says the Press.

Below, the brown river

is sneaking in again,

repainting the crags of Cataract Gorge,

a dumpy tourist paddle-boat

like something off a roundabout,

is gaudily chugging past,

its p.a. barking There

above you to your right …

Launceston wasn't fun for you

in those willow-pattern days,

trundling in in that knocked-up carriage

with your old servant Godbold

decked out in his suit of velveteen,

tall black shiny hat, shot belt, gun.

And what a fog! You imagined a huge

cauldron of steam. And, as always,

perky with opinion,

you ventured the siting of the town

an unaccountable blunder. Despite masts

tangling prettily above the wharf,

handsome church at every turn,

river and well-stored shops,

you winced at the squalor, filth,

as if sensing the end of flitting

might insist on this. Clutching faith

in the sunnier side of things,

you left in a pelting thunderstorm.