A one-roomed place, they called it Welshville then.

But now the building's gone, a lone tree lingers on

With memories that flow down through my pen.

I often went to sleep to the tunes that Dad would coax

From his fiddle, in the lounge room where he'd play.

Fifty years have gone, but if Dad could bow a song,

I know that I would still 'nod off' today.

We formed a family band, Dad said he couldn't play.

His fingers were too stiff, he did resign.

But he rozened up his bow and had another go

Way back near nineteen fifty-nine.

In shearing shed and halls, at picnic races too,

From Sydney, out to Walgett on the plain.

In the scrub and in the town, his tunes were handed down.

That's why my mind recalls the same refrain.

A cruel stroke cut him down, his fiddle's in its case.

I hope his dreams are filled with music now.

Can I reach inside where his thoughts reside?

With a tune that takes him way back when ...

I often went to sleep to tunes that Dad would coax

From his fiddle, in the lounge room where he'd play.

Fifty Years have gone, but if Dad could bow a song,

I know that I would still 'nod off' today.

by Ross Kurtz

Fleet have been the feet of time

That fiend who robs our stay.

Our enemy has paced over racing days

Since our fingertip waves from north and south.

We clasp hands-if brief then small complaint-

Then tread tracks that mesh in nets and part.

On brooding days and wounded staggered years

I think on friends and feel your presence near.

My page words are poised to rage

And make connections. My sage raves

Will not rest in envelopes with stamps and grace

But my lasting words are yours and theirs like us.

by Bob Campbell