Sigh. Another Australian Literary Review, another Clive James poem, its very existence subtracting from the sum worth of poetry as a mode of expression. This one Aldeburgh Dawn is about a literary festival that James attended. When it's not merely self-parodic:

Later, near midnight, on the esplanade A pair of ancient people hand in hand Sit on a bench. Ideally they should be The ghosts of Vishnevskaya and Rostropovich...