Oh please wake me up when September begins
Day one of September's the first day of Spring.
Here in this hemisphere on the south side
Our weather revives from a cold Winter bride.
Daffodils bloom, and new growth is seen
Lush paddocks spread out with grass oh so green.
The sun in the blue sky is a welcome sight
Our day is now warmer and so is our night.
Spring brings such renewal to brighten our moods
More time is spent outside as Winter concludes.
The earth on the north side brings September's fall
Where days become colder with Summers recall.
A change to the season with carpets of leaves
That fall to the ground when stripped from the trees.
Then Winter takes over with cold and the rain
While here in the south I'll have Summer again.
And so to you now, these words I do send
September for me brings a start not an end.
July.
cold tightening
around fabric.
cotton clenched,
twisted like creekwater
seized by frost.
white cloth waits
for its undoing.
dye seeps
slowly—
like mist on the ranges,
like breath
through the fold.
indigo first,
deep as a billabong shadow.
then iron-rust,
red ochre,
the colour of dust
after the heat.
then wattle-yellow,
sudden sun
in the gathered valleys.
each knot holds a silence.
each seam marks a boundary.
colour works through it.
outside,
paddocks are stiff in the morning.
frost sketches brittle lines
across fencewire and spider web.
inside,
the cloth will not hold still.
it runs.
it fractures.
it remembers heat.
hands stain
like earth after rain,
like bark at dusk,
like something living
pressed briefly
into human shape.
unwind—
and the fabric is no longer fabric,
but aftermath:
rings like seasons misread,
threads like thaw beginning,
a map of stain and release,
winter stored in cloth.
July loosens.
not the land—
not yet—
but here,
in this small storm
of colour,
winter breaks
into circles of fire.
Now Tim is great, enthusiastic and in no way dim' he an Aussie asset, is our mate
Tim..He is full of good intention ya'know
I can feel it from here.' Mind he's often meeting with legends, reckon i should make that clear, wether it 'green lightening
tech'? Or innovations coming through from
The paddocks to the table.? Tim brings it
To you..Remember nation of battlers.' How
Far you have come, i believe any setback at
Home or external? You will overcome.' We
Do not need Brussels, but more men such as Tim..And the true Aussie spirit,to light up all the country from whithin
The dew will fail to pool...
Catching Light, becoming Air.
A daytime dream. Briefly held.
Wisped away.
Like every day.
The forest of grass
received a starshower of overnight starlight
which pooled in places in the fields.
Silken hammocks. Spider-stitched.
For the briefest low-light
momentaries, as a foggéd breath might,
they seem to give me cause to think
that
they may have caught the Moonlight.
Though, in time, the sod and sun
will drink the dew
and the day’s demands will leave trodden
the patches in the paddocks.
Of silver. Of sun. Of moon. Of stars.
Of magical
pools.
I feel safe and whole here
Devoid of fear
Alone listening to the rain
Devoid of worry or pain
Cocooned by green paddocks and trees
Devoid of thoughts of death or disease
No humans for miles around
Devoid of white noise sound
Completely at one with mother nature
Devoid of chaos, destruction, haters
I feel happy here as my soul is at rest
Devoid of negativity and lifes stress
I feel safe and whole here
Devoid of fear!
But Not The Mountains
There is no sound from the mountains
Unlike that of the Magpie
The kereru or the Bell birds
Or the tractors rumbling across the paddocks
There is no sound from the mountains
Like the Nor Wester racing through the trees
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle
the bark of the working dog
There is no sound from the mountains
As the Southerly snow whips them unmercifully
Save the sound from the waterfalls
as they race towards some unknown destination
There is no sound from the mountains
As the braided rivers wend their way to the sea
As the big jet planes fly hither and yon
There is no sound from the mountains
Save that of peace and tranquillity
I see peace in the bright blue skies, in the paddocks green
In the warble from the magpies tounge in the breath of
God I come undone, in the pouring rain there are melodies
To heal hearts and fill the soul of me, I take strength from
Others of the human race' i note the joy we can embrace!
I see gold in the seashores sand; in sunbursts on rooiftops
Its vast and grand..From Kempsey down to Wangaratta
I listen to traffic on the m25 and yearn to be far from
Londons tide.' To return once more to penong and look
Over the plains, toward Perth or maybe i'd jump the train?
Take the Indy ride.. back to the Eastern States, buy some tinnies
And conjugate.? Eat Barrumundi maybe redfinToo? I'm game.'
Now I'm worn and battered.. I need home again..I need the
Drive of the Aussie folk, the strength of un-assuming women and blokes, And I know I'd slip right in..Like wool off the woolshed table
I'd be right into the bin.'
You see them everywhere,
sometimes countless in number,
winged, walking or wading,
running the gauntlet of waves,
filling the air.
Birds populate the planet,
make their home in trees,
buildings, on grassy paddocks,
icy continents and clinging
to the craggy heights of cliffs.
So many. But where do they go
to die. We see only a few
as roadkill or the odd one
decomposing under a bush.
Where are the others?. Surely
death should be more visible
in their ranks, parklands dotted
with those that have fallen dead
from the sky or a branch. More
washed up on a beach.
You would think their remains
would be everywhere
in plain sight. But no.
It's as if the dead slip through
a portal and into the unseen,
leaving no trace. Or maybe
the earth simply claims
and disposes of them
in haste out of respect.
Or do they find somewhere
inaccessible, hidden from view,
a place to pass away
and leave the human mind
to wonder why
the bodies of the avian dead
seem to number so few.
Meaning is over there,
beyond the burnt paddocks
and blackened hills,
the crumpled, flattened ruins
of houses. It is further out
than that nothingness glazed
upon the distances
of a vacant stare.
A powdery dust now coates
the walls of a terrible absence.
There is a gaping silence,
a hole emptied of screams,
of moans, cries given up
to heaven. What was living
has been burnt back
to where only
a dull numbness
chafes against passing time.
Melted pots poke through
a tangle of charcoaled waste.
Memories, lifetimes crumble
into flakes of ash and amongst
the rubble,
a fire blackened teddy bear
with outstretched arms
seems baked in a posture
of perpetual still,
holding onto something
beyond the reach of fire.
I have a little greenhouse
It sits wobbly on the hill
Constructed from a kitset
Requiring monumental skill
A 40 page instruction book
Said it was a simple task to do
But I was not convinced
That this was entirely true
A fragile aluminium frame
Held with 500 fiddly screws
Was a testing of my patience
To see how many I would lose
The polycarbonate sheets
Fragile and light as fine chiffon
Flew off in the slightest breeze
Before I could attach them on
'Two hours of construction'
Is all the time you need, they say
But let me tell you, that's a lie
Because it took three days
Then in the first nor'easter storm
It collapsed, negating all my labours
The walls were in the paddocks
And the door was at the neighbours
Now it's badly taped together
And held down with bungy cord
So far so good, fingers crossed
We get some vege as a reward!
on a chill morning
a crisp sheet of white frosting
coating the paddocks
29 December 2022
Poetry soup syllable counter
trees along the fence line strain
stretched tight by the wind
turning inside and out
leaves in all directions
buffeting and thrashing in the howling gale
sheets of horizontal rain hammer the paddocks
through the knee deep mud
sodden cowprints overflow with water
still the rain pours down uncontrollably
and the wind roars over the hills
scarred with open clay slips
raincoat and gumboots
barely visible in the gloom
the farmer trudges home
after evening milking
Tui birdsong starts again, melodious warbling
bitter southerly wind still bites
sleet, horizontal and cold, flattens the daffodils
sudden rays of bright warm sunshine
race over paddocks
vivid green grass juxtaposes clear blue sky
Earth warms
warmed earth from blue skies
falling down flat in long grass
my whole self laughing
we had the best fun playing
hide and seek in hay paddocks
Tanka 57577 syllable count
Day I've known in early Autumn
You are spring in winter long thought on
How truth differs; three have I known
Two hemispheres I now call home
German day in such heavy leaf
British may I've known of chief.
Aus May mists and paddocks longer
Cross roads Albury Wodonga
Mays, holding notes in my life's song.
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