Photo by Chris Gill on Unsplash

A country lad at heart
the bush was in my veins;
as a boy I gulped up mouthfuls
of the northern queensland air,
running through the swaying grass
down to the rocky creek,
and in the mud of springs
I bathed my boyish dreams.

Whereto those simple pleasures
of dirt beneath the nails,
scratches and bloody gashes
from tumbling down the slope
to caves and shady grottos,
swinging high from gnarled old gum
splashing to the stream?

I remember
baked beans bursting in the fire
decorating the camp,
shooting at birds in vain,
skinning a kangaroo,
blood and guts,
foul stench
of innards burst.

And we stole the ripened melons
from irate farmer types
guarding their tobacco patch,
stringing giant leaves
two by two,
long sticks hanging in the barn
drug smoke in the making.

Canoeing through the reeds
in leaky corrugated iron,
as flocks of pink galahs
rose flushed into the sky,
red stained shirt
from mulberries,
greedily gorged
in the post office trees,
shit fights in the fields,
mud thrown in the dams,
water brown and turgid
rushing down the creeks,
cascading over falls
flooding coastal plains
and the sugar farmers future.

Leave a Reply if you liked, enjoyed or were amused by what you read here