This side of the city is nothing to shout about. There are no roaring wheels of fortune nor grandstands of wondrous formulas. The blinding floodlights and ringside barriers of a global arena hide the backdoor to a neighbouring peninsula and a lesser bank between two tamed rivers. From blackened ports in a labyrinth of manholes, the water from deceased swamps dawdles through layers of inorganic grime before dripping into a basin of concrete grey.
Under vehicular bridges, unplanned families bask in the bliss of homefree domesticity. They seem happy to pay the price of waterfront living and its attendant conveniences of a sun-soaked balcony and the ceaseless caress of coastal elements. A piped facility by the park provides chlorinated respite from the sights and smells of choked passages and the sands of a loose fringe cushion soles that support a late morning's gargle.
Half-hidden by a copse of unkempt trees, there is a cluttered shrine of forgotten tombs and surly guardians. Beyond this grave intrusion lies a hairpin to the shell of a grounded port that first fell to the might of the east and later to the growing belly of flying beasts.
Young she-oaks form an unruly fence on the flanks of a still river, hiding in their needles the harassed palps of long-legged hoppers and big brown beetles. Cloaked by a carpet of morning glories, little herons partition the shoreline into ill-tempered territories, each bird begrudging its neighbour for stealing its fair share of swarming fish. With luck, these spear fishermen, along with a common kingfisher perched on a drain pipe, will miss the bait that bites back with a fatal hook. In this quiet corner within squinting distance of a city that never slips, there is still airspace enough to hear the whistling of orioles and woodpeckers as they patrol the boughs of waterside trees that offer no shade against the looming stain of a horizon on fire over a bay of borrowed plenty.
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