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Old

In The Gloam Of The Evening

Posted Tuesday 3rd November 2009 at 06:21 by Francis Duggan
In the gloam of the evening across the darkening sky
A large flock of fast flying starlings to their roosting trees fly
And a mob of roos from the gully hop up the higher ground
They cover quite a few metres in each effortless bound,
The yellow tail black cockatoos call weerloo whilst in flight
They are not very plentiful and not a common sight
Large dark brown birds with yellow stripes on tail they shred the hard pine cones for their seed
For to...
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Old

The Hill That Was Christened Kolor

Posted Monday 2nd November 2009 at 23:58 by Francis Duggan
The hill that was christened Kolor is the Mt Rouse of today
And nothing lasts forever as some are known to say
On the volcanic mountain beneath the rocks and clay
The bones of the first Australians at peace forever lay.

They had lived here for thousands of years before other races came
And they watched as from the volcanic mountain flowed the river of flame
In the form of red hot lava some of which reached the sea
And some scattered far and...
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Old

The Creatures Of The Night

Posted Sunday 1st November 2009 at 23:42 by Francis Duggan
Out there on the hill under the moonlit sky
In the hour before midnight the hunting fox cry
The unmistakeable voice so familiar and shrill
Echoes in the stillness across the quiet hill.

A calm night in November with just a slight breeze
The boobook owl calls on the moonlit gum trees
Mopoke mopoke sings this bird of the night
One who hides away from the lamp of daylight.

The male brush tail possum utters his territorial call...
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Old

Where The Merri flow

Posted Sunday 1st November 2009 at 23:37 by Francis Duggan
The butcherbird sings on an old gray gum tree
Where the Merri waters flow on towards the sea
Through an old Land that has inspired story and rhyme
That was even old in the ancient Dreamtime.

The old Merri river so calmly does flow
As near to the ocean it crawls along slow
Just over a mile from where the surf waves roar
It quietly moves on to the saltwater shore.

On this warm day in November of hardly any breeze
Out of...
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Old

He Won't Be Going Back

Posted Sunday 1st November 2009 at 23:32 by Francis Duggan
When wildflowers are blooming by the babbling rill
He won't be going back to the town by the hill
To see the old fields in their wildflowers of May
He won't be going back he's been too long away
From the town he grew up in many decades ago
He feels he'd be a stranger there now perhaps none there he would know
The years have left him looking older and stiffer and gray
A shell of the man he was of a bygone day
In this far Southern Country with...
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