Outback sky a dark
canvas of cold stars.
Wind blows across dry dirt,
tossing grains of sand
against rocky crusts.
No clouds in sight.
A dingo calls out
to a bright moon.
Sitting upon a high cliff,
looking for a small,
quick hop
of a kangaroo.
Harsh shrubs stand still.
Night brings a sharp chill,
calming a sun-burnt land.
At dawn, currawong
will sing again.
But now, it is tranquil.
Shadows wash
all colour away.
Only a faint glow stays,
a ghost of hours past.
Imagine perching in that huge gum tree;
I would fly and see for miles,
just like that currawong that slides
between the misty air and dewy grass.
I wonder if that currawong,
inside his bony-birdie-head,
would ever wish that he could be
a walkie-talkie-kid like me?
On moss covered log I sit to rest; a yellow robin shows no fear,
there's continual rippling water, a ground thrush feeding near.
Maidenhair droops down the weathered bank; a currawong mournfully cries …
for this one afternoon I feel - I'm lost in paradise.
The first is like an imaginary vision;
a tiny apparition, in three quick flashes.
The landing, one sip, then disappearing,
sweet fairy wren.
Then, there is the brazen, full, plop of the Currawong;
raucous, self proclaiming
with flapping ablutions
and on exit, stealing one
of the floating silk lilies.
Suzanne Delaney
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