On the pillow John Mateer’s sleepy head
is a goldfish bowl aswirl with Venetian water,
and on that galleon, that luminous toy,
he is at the helm, telescope to his eye,
swearing he can’t see Australia.

And when his caravel glides into the Tejo,
as poised and cerebral as a black swan,
he calls for a glass of port and a pastel de nata,
then takes to his bed in a quiet hotel in Alfama,

and dreams the dream:
that one day there will be a poet
named John Mateer, just as there was once,
off the edge of maps, a monster
called Australia.