A SNOWY MOUNTAIN MORNING .. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet
‘twas a misty morning up the
mountain, somewhat cold and drear,
every sound I heard seemed muffled,
save for one that I heard near,
and I thought I was mistaken, even
though I heard it clear,
but I looked around and there it was
- a dingo.
It was sitting still and watching me
through veils of gauzy mist,
and his colour blended in so well he
seemed to just exist
like an old and well-worn anthill
does. His fur was just sun kissed
as old Sol peeked shyly up above the
mountains.
His fur was gold like ironbark honey,
ears both pricked, alert,
and he made eye contact with me his
gaze he'd not avert.
Seemed the presence of a stranger
did not even disconcert
him in the least - he was a wild dog,
home in country.
Only young, because his muzzle was
not yet tinged with the grey,
but with white fur, splashed across
his chest, and two front feet in play,
though he was a little ribby, it is
only fair to say
he's a young dog in his prime ... a
handsome fellow.
And we shared a precious moment and
we both shared our respect,
for each other and for country and
for living I suspect.
Then he ambled off, I let him go,
his journey quite unchecked
through the drifts of yellow
wildflowers in the valley.
Then he turned just once to look at
me as if to say "Hooray
thank you for taking pictures of me
in my home today.
I know you are the brumbies friend -
another time, I'll stay
and keep you company when visiting
our mountains.''
Then he raised his snout and sang
out loud his own warragal’s song,
and it echoed round the mountains,
and it wasn't very long
before other dingoes replied, their
music proud and strong
and it echoed, echoed, echoed
through the valley.
And the brumbies on a distant hill
where granite boulders lay
raised their heads and turned to
listen and responded with a neigh
as their stallion led them higher, a
muscled battle scarred grey -
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