'The Song Of The Frogs' - upgrade I hope
Posted: Sat Mar 17, 2018 5:41 pm
Following in Maureen's footsteps.
This is an upgraded version (I hope) of a poem I posted on Maureen’s Homework.
A few small changes and a little more added - True Story.
The Song Of The frogs
The old camp was a welcome sight with summer heat now at its height,
this scrawny bunch of mulga trees at least would offer filtered shade,
No greenhouse signs out this way yet; more droughts are likely what we’ll get;
they’re mostly sceptics in the bush, from all the comments I hear made.
This arid place I know it well, there’s little shade and hot as hell,
the only life you see out here, are flies and ants, and lizards too.
The grounds as hard as concrete now yet scattered trees survive somehow,
you’d wonder why my wife and I still come as often as we do.
Despite the harshness of this place - its solitude that we embrace,
the nearest town is far from here and few will venture out this way.
There’s always gold here to be found – it’s scattered over all this ground,
we love this place and always will – out here where tiny nuggets lay.
The weather man had promised rain; a promise often made in vain
and looked unlikely this time too, with noonday skies still clear and blue.
There’s not a single cloud in view, which shows just what the experts knew,
yet still I glanced towards northwest in hope, as knowing bushies do.
At dusk while dragging in a log, I could have sworn I heard a frog;
impossible I told myself, a frog can’t live in sun baked ground.
It hadn’t rained since months before, and even then, a drop, no more;
but then I heard that frog again, soon joined by others all around.
Then like a choir they had sung, sang in their croaking frog like tongue,
they sung for rain of that I’m sure, although there’s not a cloud in sight.
Their songs were pleasing on our ears; the first time sung I’m sure for years
and echoed through the stillness of a dark and balmy outback night.
Then serenaded by their song we slept through croaks still loud and strong,
till woken by the patter of the first few drops of precious rain.
No doubt the frogs had sensed this change with mating rights to soon arrange,
for many years would likely pass, before the frogs would sing again.
© T.E. Piggott
This is an upgraded version (I hope) of a poem I posted on Maureen’s Homework.
A few small changes and a little more added - True Story.
The Song Of The frogs
The old camp was a welcome sight with summer heat now at its height,
this scrawny bunch of mulga trees at least would offer filtered shade,
No greenhouse signs out this way yet; more droughts are likely what we’ll get;
they’re mostly sceptics in the bush, from all the comments I hear made.
This arid place I know it well, there’s little shade and hot as hell,
the only life you see out here, are flies and ants, and lizards too.
The grounds as hard as concrete now yet scattered trees survive somehow,
you’d wonder why my wife and I still come as often as we do.
Despite the harshness of this place - its solitude that we embrace,
the nearest town is far from here and few will venture out this way.
There’s always gold here to be found – it’s scattered over all this ground,
we love this place and always will – out here where tiny nuggets lay.
The weather man had promised rain; a promise often made in vain
and looked unlikely this time too, with noonday skies still clear and blue.
There’s not a single cloud in view, which shows just what the experts knew,
yet still I glanced towards northwest in hope, as knowing bushies do.
At dusk while dragging in a log, I could have sworn I heard a frog;
impossible I told myself, a frog can’t live in sun baked ground.
It hadn’t rained since months before, and even then, a drop, no more;
but then I heard that frog again, soon joined by others all around.
Then like a choir they had sung, sang in their croaking frog like tongue,
they sung for rain of that I’m sure, although there’s not a cloud in sight.
Their songs were pleasing on our ears; the first time sung I’m sure for years
and echoed through the stillness of a dark and balmy outback night.
Then serenaded by their song we slept through croaks still loud and strong,
till woken by the patter of the first few drops of precious rain.
No doubt the frogs had sensed this change with mating rights to soon arrange,
for many years would likely pass, before the frogs would sing again.
© T.E. Piggott