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Maureen K Clifford
Posts: 7495
Joined: Tue Nov 09, 2010 10:31 am
Location: Ipswich - Paul Pisasale country and home of the Ipswich Poetry Feast


Post by Maureen K Clifford » Sat Feb 02, 2019 11:59 am

ROUGHING IT ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

Winter is here, I feel its chill
and even more so on this hill
where smoking chainsaws whine and grind
and kookaburras pay no mind
to iron bark splinters sprayed about,
as for the grubs they search. No doubt
a pleasant feast quite unexpected.
I've yet to see one grub rejected.

In leather gloves, chainsaw chaps, jacket,
and ear muffs to keep out the racket,
he wields the saw with practiced ease.
He's quite at home amongst the trees
and keeps one eye out for the snakes
for just one bite is all it takes
to turn into a tragedy
the bushman's art of felling trees.

As winter winds wildly whip past
freezing me with their icy blast
I dream of log fires as I wait
and hot chocolate - no debate,
with marshmallows ... oh such delight.
Alas not now, maybe tonight.
For now it's bend, and heave and load
cut ironbark rounds. Firewood. Cash owed.

At night, fresh showered and almost warm
we sit around the fire. At dawn
it's merely embers dull and gray
now left to keep the chill away.
But fan them with the old worn hat
throw on some kindling and soon that
will blaze - then add a log or two
and that fire is ablaze anew.

Put on the billy, stoke the fire
and watch the blue flame rising higher,
get out the jaffle irons and beans,
the day old damper - we've the means
to cook us up a warming feast
to warm the man and inner beast.
Kookaburras call in the sun ...
life's good. A new day has begun.

And maybe somewhere down the line,
we'll recall memories of this time
well spent, with time not wasted - no,
taken for granted even so.
For a short while we lived the dream
gave up our day jobs, were a team.
Goes without saying it was fun
and life was never once humdrum.

But time moves on - nought stays the same,
the rules have changed, likewise the game
seems human error intervened
and took with it the hopes and dream.
And city streets can't ease the pain
that still falls like torrential rain
when memories are sparked and fanned
like waning fires, of lost farmland.
Check out The Scribbly Bark Poets blog site here -

I may not always succeed in making a difference, but I will go to my grave knowing I at least tried.

Neville Briggs
Posts: 6842
Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 12:08 pm
Location: Here


Post by Neville Briggs » Fri Feb 08, 2019 1:53 pm

You can get electric heaters and gas heaters, the are supposed to look just like a log fire. Nah, I don't think so. :)
Singleton Bush Poets.

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