A Queensland Fresco
New Moon
New moon
Points a horizon
Into silence.
Casuarinas
In reflection
Finger a star.
The land watches
Elementals move
About water.
Accepting unquestioned
Earth waits
For words.
Energy hidden
Hands hold
Emptiness.
Figures trapped
In rock
Wait for release.
Skeletons wander
Across souls
Walking backwards.
Intelligence feels
Primal magic
Touch freedom.
Creation struggles
Through sleep
To Art.
All that's left of of the Bush round here
All that's left of the bush round here
Is a butterfly on wing
Carefully seeking a way to fly
Between balconies and 'things'.
Once the sun would scatter
Light into a sea
Lapping through the mangroves
Tangled up with leaves.
A continent place created,
Land sprawling out so far
Man could walk forever
In and out of stars.
Now paper-cluttered pavements
Bustle all around
Until the creek that cooled in heat
Is forced to go underground.
Gone the laugh that comes with dawn
Gone the high sand dunes,
Nature now is only bone
Covered with diesel fumes.
How and why has this happened,
This limbing out of trees
Into concrete coffins
Cramped with title deeds.
All that's left of the bush round here
Is a butterfly on wing
Forlornly trying to find a flower
Amongst plastic wheeley bins.
The Units
'Oh ach' meanders up to me
Through the banksias below,
So soft a lilt it melts into
Hills of Highland snow.
'Si, Si' I hear as a figure bends
To water the chusan palm.
A gondola seems to float through air
With easy Venetian charm.
A chirpy glottal stop or two,
An ancient busy sound.
I grin and listen to a slang
Breathing London town.
I listen, think and wonder,
I have no memory
Of noticing accents
When I played among tee-trees.
Did I feel though something,
When the adults heard
Old familiar rhythms
From a distant world.
After their reaction
Perhaps I went to find
Whether Word, or Homeland,
Willed most into the mind.
No mystery now or puzzle,
I recognise the place
From whence a dialect comes,
See its native face.
And I know the vision
Speech has power to give,
One idiom can let
A childhood be re-lived.
Language born of background
Also lets me see
My home is here in Queensland,
Here my imagery.
Surfers
Moffat beach in boisterous weather
Tossing, smashing, prancing,
Breakers seethe to shore,
Rising in the air
Thumping into foam,
They as horses race
Plunge about the sea
Curving round, returning, in reckless company.
Wave and man together struggle round the edge
Of sanity and space
Darting into depths,
Pawing into sand.
Australians crowd the coast
Excited as they watch
Their mates demented match.
A twist or ill judged turn
Could cripple, kill a man,
All or nothing now.
Pitting strength of spirit
And co-ordinated limbs
Against a wilful ocean
Furious to feel such concentrated motion.
Scrubby bush lies broken by the beach's edge
Foam is flinty salt
Sprayed about the flesh
Splashing into rocks
Flying over forms.
Skill and courage meet
Youth's ecstasy complete.
Half a world of water
Crashing down like hooves
Figures bend and lean
Saddled to the surf.
Topping in a fury
Dropping in a rage
Waves gallop to the cave.
Lather on the main
Eyes and minds alive
To battles fought and won.
Through surf or steep cliff side
The man from Snowy River seems forever on the ride.