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Old

Memories Of The Powlett

Posted Saturday 7th November 2009 at 23:15 by Francis Duggan
The skylark the small brown feathered minstrel is carolling in the sky
His image decreases to a speck as upwards he does fly
And the wattlebirds are calling on a flowering banksia tree
Where the ancient Powlett river crawls onwards to the sea
In the sand dunes by the river in the shadow of the trees
The tribe known as the Bunurong had their corroborees
And though none seem to know of their burial ground or of where their bones might lay
Their ghosts...
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Old

December By The Mountains

Posted Saturday 7th November 2009 at 23:11 by Francis Duggan
December by the mountains the mountains far away
And the old fields by the high wood in the morning looking gray
It has been freezing overnight a cold chill is in the breeze
And the hungry rooks are calling on the leafless old beech trees.

December by the mountains and bank high the mountain rill
In the cold gray of the dawning goes babbling down the hill
The blackbird scrape the leaf litter beside the bare hedgerow
And the hill above the...
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Old

The First Day Of December

Posted Saturday 7th November 2009 at 23:07 by Francis Duggan
The first day of December so breezy and so bright
And butterflies are flitting in the beautiful sunlight
And the sweet song of the blackbird is floating in the breeze
And clusters of white blossoms on the maleluca trees,
The first calendar day of Summer in the Southern Hemisphere
And Summer it is always such a warm time of year
Australia's white backed magpies the feathered minstrels sing
Their fully grown offsprings to them call for food they were...
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Old

A Memory I Remember

Posted Friday 6th November 2009 at 22:45 by Francis Duggan
Old Clara in his hat of snow, the stream bank high is flowing
And across the wet and bare and deserted fields the cold north winds are blowing
Winter arrives in his cloak of gray on the first morning of December
And the redwings chirp on the bare hedgerows old memories I remember,
Cattle in the farm shed bellow for silage and hay and the hungry rooks are calling
And sparrows squabble for crumbs of bread by the back door as sleety rain is falling
The groves...
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Old

The Hungry Hill

Posted Friday 6th November 2009 at 22:42 by Francis Duggan
Across the place of stones and thistles known as the hungry hill
The harsh call of the kookaburra echoes loud and shrill
And down in the wooded gully the calls of the weerloo
In this the home of wallaby and the wild grey kangaroo,
An open and rugged landscape with scattered stands of trees
Where thistledown carry the seeds of thistles in the freshening evening breeze
To germinate amongst the bracken on the hillside brown and dry
With every passing...
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