Queenstown

Gwayne Naug

From the first Eastern Writers Group's anthology Zest 1 (1990)

I paddled down a slender creek of silver, winding through a wasteland,

And climbed a painted mountain while choking on its dust.

The sun played with iridescent stones in a gaping hole,

Vainly, tendrils of creeper clawed at a dead tree.

Railroad tracks of pioneer pride now lie rusting to the coast,

Light filters through boarded-up windows of Victorian grandeur,

The wind plays ghostly notes around a deserted band rotunda.

Nostalgia jogs my elbow as I saunter down the golden boulevard.

 From my hotel window I watch a pageant depicting prosperity pass by.

I wander through the streets and hear the diggers shout, “Eureka!”

And in the park an old man regales me with tales of gold and glory.

A pigeon rests on a bronze statue which stands saluting a bygone war . . .

And then I walk away, buy a ticket and catch a bus to reality . . .