CHRISTMAS 2017

"and the angels sang"

I'm not a believer anymore

but last night

I heard angels sing.

Usually

I hear them in birdsong

or feel them in a stirring breeze

or see them in a starry sky.

But last night

they were in a cathedral,

all grey sandstone

ornate woodwork

and stained glass ,

made flat and colourless

against the night sky outside.

Not my usual choice

any more

for sensing

sense beyond mind,

for experiencing

manifestations of deity.

But I felt …

uplifted,

elevated,

transformed;

no longer the unbeliever

that I've become.

Every valley shall be exalted,

a virgin shall conceive,

the eyes of the blind shall be opened …

"Hallelujah!"

The voices soared

to the arches above,

hung on the still spring air,

and reached

into the very soul

of my being.

No!

I'm not a believer anymore

but last night

I heard angels sing.

Reflection on hearing the Adelaide Chamber Singers "Messiah" in St.Peter's Cathedral - November 2017.

SKETCHING 2017

Not much serious work in 2017.

Some playing around trying different things.

A RICH MEMORY

A WALK REMEMBERED

I took the clifftop walk that day,
high above the beach,
walking slowly,
carefully,
leaning
against the force
of a storm
howling in from the ocean.

Standing behind a rock,
looking out to sea,
I saw them,
gliding,
climbing,
swooping,
using the force
of the wind,
seagulls riding a tempest.

Later,
down in a cove,
sheltered from the gale,
I trudged
through sand,
collecting
pebbles and shells,
stepping around rocks
of ancient
ripples engraved in stone.

MORE BUSH POEMS

The old mail road
leaving the modern, sealed
Stuart Highway -
no signage,
just an old tyre still.


         








  Old Mail Road 

Drive slow or you’ll miss it
There’s an old campfire,
no marker, no sign post,
just an old truck tyre.

Forty long miles of plain
with little change,
some low hills on the horizon
with a gap in the range.

You wind through that gap.
Drop well back through the gears.
You’re on rocks now, a creek bed
that’s been dry for years.

More miles to a boundary fence,
a windmill, a gate,
a stockyard, some cattle,
a homestead, a mate.

   APARA 

Around
behind the range
is Apara,
a place
of rocks
and reeds
and tall river gums,
different
from the red
spinifex covered
plain.

Nyaratja
took us there
one day,
showed us
the deep
dark hole
in the reeds
where Wanampi
the creative
water serpent
lived.

Told us
a story,
ancient
yet living,
timeless
yet dated,
for life
moves on
cultures
change
develop
decay.

Nearby
an ancient tree
bears
the scar
cut by
explorers,
a rock face
scratchings
by pioneers
watering
stock.

And so
the sacred
is profaned,
the stories
are forgotten,
the songs
go unsung,
progress
prevails
something
dies.

At Apara in 1970.