Bob Fox

(at the Victor Harbor Folk Festival, Sept 30, 2001)

 inside a night
  in a humid 
    september marquee 

Bob Fox his name was 
  if ever there was
   an anglo name 

   who took a disparate pile
 middle aged ingenues
and youthful ferals
 
   a story
  of miners, 
he told

   the Tine, 
  Whitby,
and greek lightning 

   eloquently his sausage 
  fingers spoke 
with crisp new strings 

   a hatred mutual
  of  economic
irrationalism 

   Bob made a  community 
  in 30 minutes 
inside a marquee 

   on a humid night 
  in september 
as we waited for the next world war