I am strolling with delight
in Melbourne town,
with all its places diverse,
and corners that smell
of the whole world
and excite my senses
and my anticipation
of the tastes and textures
to come.
And in my gentle
curious walk across
the busy traffic
etching the art
of Melbourne’s night,
I enter and stroll
into Lygon Street,
Melbourne’s Little Italy,
the epicentre of food
and Mediterranean
gastronomic art.
Along the shadowy streets,
now lit as if on display,
the people also walk aglow
and parade and slip out of
bars and restaurants and cafes,
moving alone and
with each other
in a celebratory dance.
And as I stroll among
the offerings familiar
and amazingly diverse,
the Italian ones draw my nose
and my soul
to the authentic taste
of pizza and pasta
oozing out of the cracks,
as the waiters come and go,
dogging the strollers
in this intricate race.
Out of the mouth
of these food-dripping spots,
eyes look at me,
smiling, curious,
and stop, holding hands,
examining the disposition
of the menu
with an eye to spy
the best and the worst
and choose in
this revelry that is a night out.
As I stroll further on,
the gentle and persistent
invitations to enter and partake
are made, among outside set tables,
flapping and clapping
in the warm summer breeze,
and the mix of patrons
shifting from inside to out,
coming and going
in this moving spectacle
of the flood-lit night.
The tables are layered with food
and with smiles mingled
with the flow of cuisine to mouth,
mixed with the generous fruit
of the vine, drunk often
drunk freely,
drunk with abandon
in the Melbourne night.
As I move through the streets
littered with people
of all shapes and kinds,
fragments of uneaten food
linger in the feverish air
and breach my nose,
and drive me to see it all,
dodging the hoons
and the drunks,
polite and rude.
Till I finally sit
to look at the moon
and the stars of this
warm Melbourne night
and take in the bustle
and celebration
of this intoxication
called Lygon street.
15/10/2016
