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Joan Webb

He had never left Mathinna.

Others said ‘Where shall we go?

   To Spain perhaps – Malaysia?

   He had never left Mathinna.

 Others said ‘Where shall we go?

   To Spain perhaps – Malaysia?

   He woke to the clear gentleness

 Of pardalotes ‘pick-id-up’, the guttural currawong,

   Blackbirds defying mocking kookaburras.

   Or rarely to the freshness of rain on iron,

 The patterned paddocks in a breath

   Turning from brown to verdant green.

   His feet imprinted the familiar ground where

 From a child he fished on creek wet rocks,

   Walked the hushed silence of wallaby tracks.

   Shadows on scarred crags ever changing,

 Devils and frogs lament in cool night bush,

   The urgent cough of possums in tall trees.

   ‘Can I give you a hand with your fencing?’

 ‘There’s a barbie at Tom’s place tonight’

   And ‘I’ve made you a pie for your tea.’

   He thought as he planned for the harvest

 What treasures in Spain could there be

   To equal his riches at home.

© Joan Webb 2008

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
peter.macrow@gmail.com

For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow