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The Bush Sings Back to Me

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Below is the poem entitled The Bush Sings Back to Me which was written by poet Lindsay Laurie. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The Bush Sings Back to Me

Through the virgin timber country this saw miller’s eye is set.
I tap for the good and prime hardwood for the timber I must get.  
Echo reacts from my swinging axe, around old ‘Gentle Annie’.
I sing to the bush, and the bush sings back to me.

There’s the anger of my swing saw building sawdust in the scrub,
A currawong palls a mournful song, in my unwatched mill town hub,
The rowdy fight, from the beer at night, an owl hoots mournfully. 
I sing to the bush, and the bush sings back to me.

Oh the magpie and the jackass, in a messmate side by side,
Warble out and laugh aloud, when I’m unoccupied,  
They wait for me so patiently, as I drink my cup of tea,
‘Til back I go to the shingle pile. The bush sings back to me. 

I sing to the bush, and the bush sings back to me,
Gang-gang growl, a wild dog howl, over chains upon the gantry,
Sap stained hands tie the bands, for the trip to Fraser’s siding.
The bush sings back to me, with the yellow robin riding.

Loaded are the bullocks, the tramlines creak and groan,
King parrots feed on wild oat seed. Their screeching is well known. 
This bullocky’s voice gives a beast no choice. Whip’s crack off every tree.
The whipbird brings confusion, when the bush sings back to me

The picket fence and the paling walls are swaying on my dray.
The axles squeak over Sardine Creek. Bellbirds tinkle away.
I pass the calls ‘til the big ash falls, from the well-timed broadaxe swings, 
A lyrebird waits ‘til the timbers sawn, to recall this when he sings. 

The lowland wait is a wanting wait, a feel for the need to go
Back to the sway of the eucalypt, and the feel of the highland snow,
Where a bushman’s mind is a varied mind, as long as I can be,
In my home on the mountain loam, where the bush sings back to me.

I can leave the saw of the timber mill, but you know I never leave,
For in my heart there’s a bushman’s soul, where no other can conceive,
Boronia scent is heaven sent, near the flow where I try to win,
A bountiful prize in the Ryson’s Creek. A pound or two of tin. 

Now the sawdust turns to rusty brown. They’re the heaps of long ago.
Fire has burned mountain ash to ash, but the re-growth does re-grow,
Tramlines are naught but barely scars. Mill towns not there to see,
Yet in my blood I am haunted still, the bush keeps calling me. 

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