The silver has a tarnish
The dust has dulled the sheen
Scratch and rub and polish
Can’t see what has been.
And then a gift of diamonds
A hard edge memory
Scratch and expose the centre
The birds are flying free.
Against a stormy, ragged sky
Their flight is bright & strong
The silver-winged mob cuts long and high
And explodes into heavenly song.
The rags and dust fall away
And a clean crisp shows
A mixture of metal and clay
The power and the glory grows.
This moment of strength & passion
Is a flash of brilliant lightning
Then in a moment’s reflection, crashing
The empty space echoes so frightening.
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.
"Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind."
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.