The Bushland is Calling
October 1st 2011 00:34
As I enter the bush to answer its call
Leaves filter the sunlight from sensitive eyes,
And on dry grass my boots softly fall.
A branch in my hand, brushing away flies
Makes the beauty of nature pleasing to see,
Moving like pictures in front of my eyes.
Bird calls are delightful, songs from the trees,
Colour stands out on the branch where they perch,
Then I stumble and fall, down on my knees
.I stumble again, then rise with a lurch,
Cursing my folly for not looking down,
And my mind thinks of Sundays in Church.
Short grass in the bush is all dry and brown
Because this land is now dying in pain;
I just wish that the rains would pelt down .
A walk past some rocks shows me different terrain,
Tall straggly trees shade a deep rocky pool
And I hear sounds from the songbirds again.
Wallabys drink, fish swim safe in the cool
‘Roos and bandicoots scurry on by,
And I scare them all off, like a fool
Close to the water just a few inches high
Maiden-hair fern is a soft gentle green
My hand brushes it gently, I sigh.
Living in towns little spirit is seen
Bush land is calling, as it always has been.
Leaves filter the sunlight from sensitive eyes,
And on dry grass my boots softly fall.
A branch in my hand, brushing away flies
Makes the beauty of nature pleasing to see,
Moving like pictures in front of my eyes.
Bird calls are delightful, songs from the trees,
Colour stands out on the branch where they perch,
Then I stumble and fall, down on my knees
.I stumble again, then rise with a lurch,
Cursing my folly for not looking down,
And my mind thinks of Sundays in Church.
Short grass in the bush is all dry and brown
Because this land is now dying in pain;
I just wish that the rains would pelt down .
A walk past some rocks shows me different terrain,
Tall straggly trees shade a deep rocky pool
And I hear sounds from the songbirds again.
Wallabys drink, fish swim safe in the cool
‘Roos and bandicoots scurry on by,
And I scare them all off, like a fool
Close to the water just a few inches high
Maiden-hair fern is a soft gentle green
My hand brushes it gently, I sigh.
Living in towns little spirit is seen
Bush land is calling, as it always has been.
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