I admire the trees that are tall and plenty

And the harsh dry climate, unforgotten

And I’m amazed, despite the extremes, at the wealth of bounty.

Our poet’s inspiration is all around us

The rolling blue hills

The lush green pastures

And the weather worn faces of the folk of these soils

The loaded dog I’m yet to see

(Though I’ve a couple whose actions they echo)

Or the drover his horse and billy

But I have met some who would not be lost in Henry’s folio

An old gnarly builder, whose wisdom is beyond others

A reclusive neighbour who lives as an isolate

A giant goanna that resembles the ancient dinosaurs

And roos who hop across this land ignoring any barricade.

But the bird calls give me reason to sing

The kookaburra

The currawong

The cockatoos and galah

And bird songs I don’t recognise

The humming bird, as small as a cicada

The whistler who draws breath for a trice

And the dawn birds who wake me every aurora

Ah yes you could say I’m a city slicker

I can distinguish a diesel engine as it roars past

The sound of the air brakes at the sight of a red shimmer

And the boy racer burning rubber trying to be as fast

I admit I am not a bird song virtuoso

For the dawn call, I have heard in this quiet countryside

Is not a rare bird that I’ve been unable to view

But my iPhone telling me to rise and begin the daily grind.

Submissions

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