Sing Me A Song
I am but a novice in this country of Henry Lawson
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 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.
by Eila Jameson-Avey
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