H'work w/e 14.10.19 - CLEANSED
Posted: Tue Sep 24, 2019 11:11 am
CLEANSED ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
There's a somber hue of greyness o'er the land I view tonight
and a flying hurry scurry of small creatures taking flight
whilst the smell of burning bushland I detect both left and right,
at my feet a creek rolls muddily along.
On the hills a few miles distant there's an umber orange glow,
whilst the clouds above are likewise tinged, an eerie sign on show.
A pale crescent moon is ringed with smoke that drifts up from below
and tonight I will not hear the dingo's song.
There are men out on the fireline, faces turned towards the West
all are blackened, tired and thirsty, each has given of their best,
but the foe is not defeated and they have no time to rest
for the dragon's not defeated - he stands strong.
Here the black scrub stands, silent and grim, and dark now its visage
where mere mortal men have fought the fight to lead a countercharge
of their own to stop destruction, battle-ing flames fierce and large
as they stem the dragon's onslaught all day long.
In my pack, secure, a faded letter, remnant of my youth
and a curl of golden hair, much cherished, reminder of truth.
Such a paltry show for one man's lifetime, rough shod and uncouth
and yet valued above all else in the throng.
As I turn to start my journey from the blackened hills of home
whilst my horse picks his way daintily, in my mind I atone
humbly for the sins of childhood, for the hurts I caused alone
and I pray forgiveness from those I did wrong.
Then I see a flash of whiteness standing stark against the dark,
of an old gum tree my Mother loved. Its mottled scribbly bark
bore a tender pink and purple garland like some strange pockmark
and I felt my Mother's eyes were watching me
as I sensed her whisper 'travel well - be free.'
23.9.19
There's a somber hue of greyness o'er the land I view tonight
and a flying hurry scurry of small creatures taking flight
whilst the smell of burning bushland I detect both left and right,
at my feet a creek rolls muddily along.
On the hills a few miles distant there's an umber orange glow,
whilst the clouds above are likewise tinged, an eerie sign on show.
A pale crescent moon is ringed with smoke that drifts up from below
and tonight I will not hear the dingo's song.
There are men out on the fireline, faces turned towards the West
all are blackened, tired and thirsty, each has given of their best,
but the foe is not defeated and they have no time to rest
for the dragon's not defeated - he stands strong.
Here the black scrub stands, silent and grim, and dark now its visage
where mere mortal men have fought the fight to lead a countercharge
of their own to stop destruction, battle-ing flames fierce and large
as they stem the dragon's onslaught all day long.
In my pack, secure, a faded letter, remnant of my youth
and a curl of golden hair, much cherished, reminder of truth.
Such a paltry show for one man's lifetime, rough shod and uncouth
and yet valued above all else in the throng.
As I turn to start my journey from the blackened hills of home
whilst my horse picks his way daintily, in my mind I atone
humbly for the sins of childhood, for the hurts I caused alone
and I pray forgiveness from those I did wrong.
Then I see a flash of whiteness standing stark against the dark,
of an old gum tree my Mother loved. Its mottled scribbly bark
bore a tender pink and purple garland like some strange pockmark
and I felt my Mother's eyes were watching me
as I sensed her whisper 'travel well - be free.'
23.9.19