Stephen Orr in The Adelaide Review argues that Adelaide is the West Terrace Cemetery. He says:
The cemetery is another world: shaded rows carpeted with dead and rotting leaves, marble angels floating in mid-air, casting an eternal glance towards the rail yards, graves that have sunk in the centre where a coffin has finally decayed, the roots from a big she-oak lifting a cast-iron fence around a child’s grave, vandalised headstones, weeds, tree stumps and broken branches blowing in the wind as a sort of botanical epigraph to the encyclopedia of death and suffering. As far as you look, headstones and memorials, as a sort of reminder of what’s to come, a memento mori that’s just as reassuring as it is frightening. Indeed, one feels a fleeting moment of anticipation, as if death might come with its own consolations.
He adds that this part weedy, part sacred, part Arcadian paddock is our songline, the story of our past, present and future lives proudly defying time to a soundtrack of torn cruciate ligaments from the nearby netball courts.