ECHOES

 ECHOES.. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

 

 

 

Silvery spinifex shake and shiver startled by the winds soft sigh.

The night is hushed and quiet, a big mob of roos pass by,

when faintly like a memory of a lonely Spirit Being

comes the sound of warragals * calling, calling, calling.  Echoing.

 

The desert nights are cold and dark, wind whispers through the dunes.

A million stars, bright sycophants, are clustered round the moon.

Has it been stained by desert sands?  For it glows orange red.

Or does its colour represent some long-ago bloodshed?

 

Red coals glow in the campfire, casting shadows black and deep

where a woman rocks a coolamon in which her baby sleeps.

She sings an ancient lullaby, like her Mother used to do.

Two dogs, with ears cocked, listen, as they gnaw carcass of roo.

 

From the darkness comes a moaning, an eerie wailing sound

rising in the night-time's stillness, it echoes all around.

It's the sound of didges droning as they play the ancient songs

and the clap sticks beat the rhythm, as they will the whole night long.

 

The Voice of God* is calling the Spirits of the Ancient Ones

 who also walked these desert sands beneath the blazing sun.

As its swung its song it sings, it calls the Gods to bring the rain

to fill the waterholes and creeks and replenish arid plains.

 

The night sky lightens, dawn is near, the storm bird sings his song.

Tall, shadowed shapes return to camp, a silent stealthy throng.

Just the sibilant shoosh of sand disturbed by broad unfettered feet

is heard as warriors return, to drink and rest and eat.

 

Soon they'll leave to hunt Perente* in the dark red desert sands

whilst still cool enough to walk on. Each man carries in his hands

his boomerang and hunting tools of woomera and spear

 the same as their forefathers did, as has been done for years.

 

They are hunters quite imposing.  Just a hair string belt in place.

White shells woven in their hair, ochre paint still on each face

 and body.  The ritual symbols of the totems for their clan.

They are hunters, they are warriors.  Each an initiated man.

 

Silvery spinifex shake and shiver startled by the winds soft sigh.

Early dawn is hushed and quiet, there are wispy clouds up high.

Then faintly like a memory of a lonely Spirit Being

comes the sound of warragals calling, calling, calling.  Echoing.

 

 

*  Bullroarers were often referred to as The Voice of God

·         Perente – Goanna/Lizard

                                                

warragals – Dingo/Australian native dog

IMAGES

 

IMAGES ...  Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

Are they being mustered silently beneath a silver moon

by dogs long gone?  Only their ghosts remain.

The thrumming canter of a thousand sheep upon the move

unseen by us, are heard crossing the  plain.

Faintly you hear the sharp crack of a bullwhip in the night

as long departed stockmen move the  flock,

and hear the bridle’s jingle and the creak of leather old.

Are spirit horses pushing up the stock?

 

Could these paddocks tell a story?  Well that would be a fair bet -

they’d tell of sparse treed hills and dusty plains

where many stock have perished from the fires, and droughts and floods,

  their bones now ground to dust, all that  remains.

The bones of working dogs are here.  Miss Jess and Ralph and Sam,

 as well as Blacky.  All those gone before.

 The image is not hard to see when at night they all rise

all keen to work the ovine flock once more.

 

It’s been sold again, this old place and it’s standing lonely still,

no warming fires reflection in the house.

The love that made this place a comfortable family home,

has gone –it’s over run with rat and mouse.

The ghosts of dogs are lonely, and no doubt they linger near,

they’ve never even once been known to roam.

They listen in the darkness and all cock a ghostly ear

for sounds to tell them they are not alone.

 

As those cold winds beat on rocky hillsides, flog the frosted plains,

  their ice-cold fingers beat on windows bare.

I think of ghostly animals still yearning for their home,

abandoned, left behind with none to care.

Recalling better times, my memory once more goes back,

and memories I have, they’ve not yet passed.

I recollect my much loved animals and see each face

all silent now and still beneath the grass.

 

I hear the muffled bark, the clank of harness.

I see the sheep now coming down the track.

These memories and many more I cherish.

All I have now - for there’s no going back.

THE BACK VERANDAH

 

THE BACK VERANDAH 

Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

The house is shabby, old and worn as is the back verandah.

One looks out over paddocks green from on the back verandah.

The dogs sleep there with the pet roos, plus saddles, hats and worn-out shoes

and lots of other stuff there too.  On the back verandah.

 

The orphaned lamb’s line up for feed, on the back verandah.

The dogs with wagging tails take heed, from the back verandah.

The boss is putting on his boot; he’s got the rifles set to shoot.

He tells the dogs “Get in the Ute”.  From the back verandah.

 

The western sun shines fiercely down on latticed back verandah.

The missus sits there shelling peas, on the back verandah.

The wood stove warms, its burning logs are simmering roo meat for the dogs and chooks are scratching round for frogs, beneath the back verandah.

 

The mauve wisteria twists and curls, festooning back verandah.

The kookaburra laughs and calls out near the back verandah.

The butcher bird is sitting there he watches with a beady stare

as missus throws meat in the air from the back verandah.

 

A squeaky rocking chair is swaying on the west verandah

as missus takes the washing off the lines on back verandah.

Maccas on the radio, Sunday papers softly blow

like scattered leaves, as breezes flow along the back verandah.

 

Sol slowly setting in the west, paints red the back verandah.

Six chooks return to roost and nest, departing back verandah.

Five dogs replete with their nights feed, slink to their beds to take their ease,

to snore and fart and scratch at fleas out on the back verandah.

 

 

MEN OF THE SEA … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

 

The waves were huge, and he was bronzed and dead now in the water.

The breeze had dropped; likewise, his sail and now he knew he oughta

get right quick on the blower and an SOS call send

before the open spaces claimed a prize from Neptune’s friend.

 

The yacht he held was priceless – master of its fate was he

and be damned if he would lose it to the vagaries of sea

and storm that was rampaging with a wild tempestuous throat,

he'd old dreams still to follow and his fist in anger smote

on the wheel as she cavorted, riding high then plunging deep.

Ginger Crust could be flirtatious but ‘twas not the time to keep

quiet about their dire predicament, for help he must now call

before the Mermen claimed him, a thought that did not enthral.

 

He’d rigged lifelines and followed every safety rule by rote

he knew each plank upon her hull – she was more than a boat,

she was the labour of his love – five years of toil and strain

and like a flower’s rare perfume impossible to tame.

 

And then as if the Gods took pity on this sailor-man

a patch of blue appeared above, and sun, though pale and wan.

Enough blue sky to make a Dutchman a new pair of breeches

a sure sign that the seas would calm and stop beating the beaches.

And in his head the giggles bubbled – joyful was his mirth

he heard the wild music of the country of his birth

intermingled with pathos, though he was exceeding glad

that Ginger Crust had bought them through, ‘twas his last link with Dad.

 

 

A Mare Comment .... ©Maureen Clifford  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

She plunged her nose deep in the pool of water for a drink

enjoyed the coolness on her feet as they began to sink

a little in the creek bed mud, around her all was calm

and nearby was her stallion, guarding them against harm.

 

Her flaxen mane moved with the breeze - tall grasses did the same,

the ripples spread across the pool.  This elegant grand-dame

snorted and shook her muzzle sending droplets flying free

sprinkling droplets on the wildflowers growing on the scree.

 

A lizard sat, sunning himself on rocks there by the creek

he'd not the slightest fear of her, her size or her mystique,

they lived in perfect harmony, and shared the mother’s gifts -

the sun, the sky, sweet water and the shelter of the cliffs.

 

Her mob were quietly grazing on the summer grasses sweet,

with nothing to disturb them they were well fed and replete,

and the wooded hill behind them offered ample summer shade

where the little foals could sleep awhile, quite safe and unafraid.

 

The landscape scarred by mankind's greed who we so often find

take what they want with little thought for what they leave behind...

a rough red track had crossed the plain, the imprint of wheels clear

and wires strung from pole to pole proved that man had been here.

 

But right now all was quite serene, two wedgetails swooped and soared,

small fluffy clouds played chasey - seems perhaps that they were bored.

Her unborn foal moved deep inside, she left the creek to rest

and wandered off to join her mob, with food now quite obsessed.

 

One can now only hope that they remain here unmolested.

Unnoticed by the men who seems have in their death invested.

Brumbies allowed to live their lives untouched by intervention.

It's wonderful to see them free - Just thought it worth a mention.

 

 

15.7.2023

 

A BRUMBY FAREWELL .. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

Perhaps the brumbies sensed a good soul passing,

as on the snowy slopes they quietly grazed,

then all heads raised, and soft brown eyes were glancing,

towards the mist that hovered  'neath sun rays.

A friend had passed, now on his final journey

to cross the rainbow bridge into the sky.

I wonder if these brumbies felt him passing

and raised their heads to say a last goodbye.