SOLITUDE

As a young boy,
I would rise early
and sit with our dog,
watching the sun rise
over the vast desert plain
that surrounded our tiny bush town.

I remember
the jangling hobbles of camels
returning from a night in the desert.

I remember
how I treasured
the solitude.

For some years in my prime
I worked in the bush,
traveling alone on miles of tracks.

I remember
the fine edge of risk,
and the knowledge
that things could go wrong.

I remember
how I treasured
the solitude.

As an old man
I sometimes stand
near our country home
and watch the sun set.

And I treasure
the solitude.

 

BLACKBIRD

 

From dawn to dusk

you sit in our tree 

filling the air

with sweet melody.

 

Why this tree, this house,

this street, this town?

Blessed with such song,

dare I be cast down?

 

 

I'm not at all good writing rhyming poetry but keep trying every now and then.

We have a blackbird that sings all day long in a tree near our house at Laura.

HARRY

Harry was a gentleman street-sweeper

whom I knew years ago 

when just a young man -

Harry Hollerhead.

He was a small man

with large hands

and a large nose,

that I had often seen

his large wife kiss

and pat affectionately.

 

With his large hard broom

and yellow wheel-barrow

Harry kept the streets

of the city immaculate,

while also greeting passers-by

with such warmth and friendship

as if the streets were his –

which, in a way, they were.

 

It was some decades later

that an artist friend

exhibited for sale

a sketch he had made

as a young man –

a street sweeper who had captivated him

with his charm and style.

 

Instantly I recognised him,

Harry – Harry Hollerhead.

 

Harry has long gone now

but his portrait

still hangs on my wall,

a reminder of

what matters in life

and how we respect

and relate to others.

Harry, as sketched by

artist Gordon Harral

and hanging on our wall.

 

Change

The breeze is fretful today,
typical of early Spring,
sunburst from drifting clouds,
and I sit musing
of winter gone,
hot summer days to come,
red dust stirring on the wind,
the dry land baking in the sun.

THE BUSH TRACK NORTH

The bush track north still calls
with its endless gibber plains
and bull-dust,
punctuated by the occasional ridge
of red sand hills,
or a dry creek bed,
or rock outcrop,
or a desert mountain range,
thousands of years old
from before human habitation.

I’ve known and loved
the inland desert country
all my life it seems,
though interspersed
with periods of
rural and urban living.

For some time now,
I’ve said the age of eighty
would be my last bush trip.
This was to have been the year,
but plans change.
“Covid” has intervened
with closed state borders
and travel restrictions.

I was preparing “Henry”,
my trusted off-road vehicle,
for the opening of state borders,
when a brain seizure occurred,
from an invasive melanoma.
Successful neurosurgery
and now other treatment
has followed.
I am blessed, still here,
treasuring every moment
of the life that I have left.

“Henry” has a new owner,
who has fallen in love with him.
He will still go bush,
but no more bush travel for me;
(no driving at all for some months, if ever).
The bush track north must ripen to
a rich and treasured memory.