It’s blowing cold and bleak
I’ve nothing much to do, There’s a snowstorm at Fall’s Creek And my hands are turning blue. I gaze at a distant snowy peak And pray for skies of blue. But I’m stuck here for a week With a sou-wester coming through. So I dream of a sun soaked stream Where the fish are running strong And think of a campfire dream And of passing the port along And stories of places where few have been Or warm dry nights by a billabong Where the start-filled skies are best seen From your welcome swag, where you belong.
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Author"Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind." Categories
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May 2017
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As a practicing artist I have travelled far and wide across Australia, walked on country, camped on country and rolled out my swag. I thank the custodians and I acknowledge the traditional owners of country throughout Australia and their continuing connection to land, culture and community. I pay my respect to Elders past and present.