ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

WHEN THE CHIPS ARE DOWN – THERE’S FISH




The winter sun is fading fast taking what little warmth
it had bestowed upon the land today
Eve’ning descends in shades of grey and pink and purple light
tonight there’ll be no moonbeams out to play.
A landscape without moonlight is dark despite stars above
each shadow seems to hold a spectre white.
Imagination playing tricks, that’s all, upon the mind
there’s nothing here to fear save one’s own fright.

A battered matchbox from within a lint filled pocket deep,
emerges and is struck to make a flame
to light the old kerosene lamp and drive shadows away
and does the night breeze softly call your name?
Or is that just the boobook owl that’s up there in the tree
and muttering away with chirps and peeps.
He’s hunted, caught and feasted on plump young juicy rabbit
so now he hoods rust coloured orbs and sleeps.

White bone and quartz softly shimmer eerily in lamplight
the detritus of fossickers long gone
The she oaks sob and sigh and pirouette to the winds tune
that carries the faint honking call of swan.
The river drifts by turgidly still heading to the sea
the plop of rising fish is heard nearby
A blackened pan sits empty glistening with olive oil.
The fire is stoked; there’ll be fresh fish to fry.



Maureen Clifford © 08/12

Hi Maureen,
That brings back some memories, the location maybe different but the settings much the same.
As A boy and later on a young man we had a fishing shack at an out of the way place, early on we were the only shack there, another one was built there much later.
The setting was at a sheltered spot on a tiny estuary that remained closed to the sea for most of the year and it was full of bream and big mullet.
What happy memories I have of that.

Terry

Well I am glad I rejuvenated something for you Terry

Cheers

Maureen