The sense of you
Posted: Fri Feb 24, 2012 3:00 pm
The sense of you.
The moon, has one thousand faces it seems
Tonight it shares silver and grey.
The stars that surround it are diamonds –
all glitter and glitz as they play.
And I‘ve watched them dart hither and thither.
For light years they’d glimmer, then go
to the black hole of nothingness up there.
Absent friends whose light was a no-show.
Sobbing coins are donated to churches
and charities here on the earth.
A token of regret for the passing
of loved ones . Though not their true worth.
And at times an Atlantic depression
hovers like persistent grey rain.
And each day seems to be dull and dreary
there are few who know the real pain.
I'm reminded by the smell of damp earth
of pristine bushland we did roam
with the sweet scent of snowdrops, so dainty
who emerge through water soaked loam.
Smouldering smoky fires bring memories
of you crouched there beside the creek,
as the Billy you filled with fresh water
and at baited lines snuck a peek.
Now sounds are the jump-leads to memories
The Wattle birds squeaky morn’ song
is the wake-up call here in the morning
near the creek where many birds throng.
There are fresh tips of new growth unfurling
a canopy shaded in green.
The bush is a part of our Heritage
and once was a part of our dream.
Maureen Clifford 02/12 ©
The moon, has one thousand faces it seems
Tonight it shares silver and grey.
The stars that surround it are diamonds –
all glitter and glitz as they play.
And I‘ve watched them dart hither and thither.
For light years they’d glimmer, then go
to the black hole of nothingness up there.
Absent friends whose light was a no-show.
Sobbing coins are donated to churches
and charities here on the earth.
A token of regret for the passing
of loved ones . Though not their true worth.
And at times an Atlantic depression
hovers like persistent grey rain.
And each day seems to be dull and dreary
there are few who know the real pain.
I'm reminded by the smell of damp earth
of pristine bushland we did roam
with the sweet scent of snowdrops, so dainty
who emerge through water soaked loam.
Smouldering smoky fires bring memories
of you crouched there beside the creek,
as the Billy you filled with fresh water
and at baited lines snuck a peek.
Now sounds are the jump-leads to memories
The Wattle birds squeaky morn’ song
is the wake-up call here in the morning
near the creek where many birds throng.
There are fresh tips of new growth unfurling
a canopy shaded in green.
The bush is a part of our Heritage
and once was a part of our dream.
Maureen Clifford 02/12 ©