With scenery improving, once I’d gone past Emu Plains.

I did not know the passengers around me, but perhaps one

Might care to play a card game, since we’d only come to Lapstone

(2)I closed my vintage fiction novel fast. So I could then look,

To see surrounding bushland, as the train pulled out of Glenbrook.

The concrete steps and walkway, over roads and rails and tracks stand

Beside the station fences, built more recently in Blaxland.

(3)Excited tourists took in views, and were not sorry too,

That urban redevelopment had not occurred in Warrimoo.

The summer sun that made them hot, and burnt their skin shall be

Forgotten now in Springwood, not too far from Winmalee.

(4)The clear far western air was like that from an open fridge:

And all the fruit was tasty at the shops in Falconbridge.

I underlined one station on timetables, with a thin pen.

You need to tell the guard if you intend to stop at Linden.

(5)My carriage weaving past the hills would often strike a good chord,

As I looked up at overpasses linking roads to Woodford.

My adult self did not forget the early childhood days he took

Excursions with school second class beyond the streets of Hazelbrook.

(6)The bushwalks were worth doing, and these verses should endorse one.

My ears repressurized, to suit the greater heights of Lawson.

The fields were green, and gumtree trunks a somewhat duller colour,

And horses drank fresh water from a pond in Bullaburra.

(7)A roundhouse in a paddock, with tall arches in its walls,

Preceded several pine trees that I passed in Wentworth Falls.

The suburbs further on provided still more atmosphere:

The highest peaks and widest views that came with that lost year.

(8)The weekend trips grew cooler, as the months became a memory:

February, March and April. Each of them was only temporary.

The further up I went each time, before I’d be alighting,

The more the sights I saw up there were ever more exciting.

(9)The red leaves looked as they did, in a 1900s autumn.

I needed winter gloves, and found a clothing shop, and bought some.

The flowers in the gardens of a holiday retreat

In bloom would make the image in my photograph complete

(10)In Medlow Bath, a friend and I went searching for an airstrip

Out somewhere in the bush. I asked a lady with a hairclip,

If she might know the route we’d need to find our destination.

The travel map I’d used had aged too much since publication.

(11)That 1997 afternoon in mid-July

We waited for our fellow mountain walker’s best reply:

“I haven’t come across that place in any of my walks,”

She said, as night began to fall on dandelion stalks.

(12)My friend and I discussed new ways to make the night go well,

And watched the lights go on outside that suburb’s grand hotel,

Enjoyed its lounge room fire, and then went home by heavy rail,

Imagining those three explorers charting out a trail.

(13)Thankfully, since they produced their maps on ancient parchments,

No-one found a way to bulldoze through those high escarpments.

Now, years later, still convinced that mountain life was best,

I relocated to this land beyond the city’s west.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at NIGHTFALL IN MEDLOW BATH.

The song of love is a bright song-
Tho bound in pain and woe-
The song of love is a dear old song-
FROM THE DAYS OF LONG AGO!

Say Darling Say-
When I am far away-
Gone like the days of September-
Will you feel sad,
To think you never had
SENT ME A LINE TO REMEMBER?

Say darling say-
Sumer has sped away-
Summer is gone, with its dreaming;
Oer the hills of home
Cold winds roam-
And goldenrods are gleaming.

Say Darling say-
Life has flown away,
Its so many years since we were young-
Rainbows of Spring,
Once were EVERYTHING-
SEND ME A LINE TO REMEMBER!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Song of Love.

The crimson tinted clouds of Early Morning-
The summerdays so softly laid to rest!
The rustling corn, the night,
With twiight falling-
Of all these days, which do we call the best?

But no one wants to trade away TOMORROW;
It is in our last days…a precious dream;
The twilight comes too soon across the prairie-
And WINTER comes again, when summers gone.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Lost Tomorrows.

Its all so different now, maybe my song can bring it back, for some of the farmers, of years ago.

Old Springtime

Oh the happy, happy Farmer-
He is getting ready now-
To harness up the horses -
and attach them, to the plow!

The wild geese, flying over-
Flying far- and flying free-
And the Prairie Farmer’s Dreaming -
There his greatest pleasures be!
He can hear the wild heese calling,
Flying free, and flying far-
And the tired farmers dreaming-
There his only pleasures are.

Theres a hill, away out yonder-
theres a field, that once was mine!
In the years, beyond tomorrow-
Take me back, to supper-time!

With the horses, standing chewing,
In the od grey barn, out there-
And the wind, just softly blowing,
O’er a land, of little care!

Take be back, to those old spring days-
When he Farmer, followed a plow,
And the world was way out yonder-
Past the hills- Forgotten now,

And the days, were long and quiet=
Even birds, had time to sing-
There were buffalo-trails to follow,
To get water, from the spring.

WE could hear, the wild geese calling-
From the clouds, that drift, and blow-
Drift and blow, across the summer,
And the spring-time, LONG AGO.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Dakota Farmer.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at My Dream.

The news came from Washington,
right from the wire-
“Feed-the-poor-pheasants!” like
a prairie on fire!
John found a pheasant, its last
strength was shorn,
And it died in his hand, too late
to eat corn!

The pheasants get such a sad
gleam in their eyes,
When they take the last look, at
the wide open skies!
They can’t dig through snow, a
few weed-seeds forlorn,
And all that they need, a few
handfuls of corn!

The big Soil Bank acres, that’s
where they lay,
The snow is so deep, and they
can’t get away!
You find the big holes they dug,
struggling along,
With nothing to eat, and the
strawpiles are gone.

The spring-days are only a short
ways away–
The brook will be singing, where
soft breezes play:
The grainfields will wave, as the
warm wind goes by:
But not for the bird who looked
last at the sky.

They once were so happy, the
summer-days made
“A Garden of Eden!” in sunshine
and shade,
They died in a snowdrift, for-
saken, forlorn,
When no one came down the
road, bringing them, corn.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at “Save the Pheasants”.

The wild geese flying over-
Flying far- and flying free-
Oh, the Prairie Farmers dreaming-
There his greatest pleasures be!

He can hear the wild geese calling
Flying free, and flying far-
And the tired Farmer’s dreaming-
There his only pleasures are!

Theres a hill, away out yonder-
Theres a field- that once was mine-
In the years beyond tomorrow,
Take me back, to supper-time!

With the horses standing chewing-
In the old grey barn, out there-
And the wind, just softly blowing-
O’er a Land of little care!

Take me back, to those old spring days,
When the Farmer, followed plow-
And the world was way out yonder-
Past the hills, we saw put west-
And the days were long, and quiet-
Even birds had time to sing-
When I heard, the wild geese calling-
From the clouds, that frift and blow-
Drift and blow, across te summer-
And- the – spring – time — long ago.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at SPRING DAYS..

There is no song so dear to me-
Till lifes last tale is told-
and over her tomb, the silver moon
Turns all her beams, to gold!

Was there a valley of singing trees?
And a kingdom by the sea?
And was there a girl who ran along
By the name of “Annabel Lee”?
Do you think that the Angels cried
When Annabel Lee was gone?

And the moon never beamed
But the Poet dreamed
Of his beautiful Annabel Lee-
And his thoughts went back
To the haunted tomb
Down by the lonely sea……
“TO HER TOMB….BY THE SOUNDING SEA!

My youth is gone, for many a year,
But the moon and the stars still gleam!
And I can never read Annabel Lee
Without going back, in a dream.

An the little valley they left one day
Is the same as it used to be-
And Poe said he was happy there……
IN THAT KINGDOM…….BY……THE……SEA!

And the moon never beams,
Without bringing him drams-
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee………
Yes the moon never beams,
Without bringing him dreams
And the stars that were beight as her eyes……
And the springtime valley they left one day….
Still under the moonlight lies.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at More Annabel Lee.

For many and many a year ago-
In a kingdom, by the sea……
A lonely poet wrote a song,
And called it “Annabel Lee”…….

They call him “The-Haunted-Poet” now….
“And the stars were as bright as her eyes!”
And the valley they left, on that faroff day….
STILL….UNDER….THE….MOONLIGHT….LIES!

THERE IS NO SING SO DEAR TO ME……..
Till life’s last tale is told!
AND OVER HER TOMB….THE SILVER MOON….
Turns all her beams…….TO GOLD!

Then the little dog looked up at me……
AND HIS EYES WERE SOFT AND DIM!……
“And….did HE remember ANNABEL LEE….????
And SHE remember HIM?”

Was there a valley of “Singing Trees?”
In a kingdom-By-The-Sea?
And was there a girl, who ran along,
BY THE SAME…..OF……..ANNABEL LEE????

And the moon never beamed……
But the POET dreamed….
OF HIS BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE!
And his thoughts went back to the “HAUNTED TOMB”….
Down by the lonely sea!
To her tomb….BY THE SOUNDING SEA!

My YOUTH is gone…. for many a year…..
But the stars and the moonlight gleam….
And I can never read, “ANNABEL LEE”
Without going back….IN A DREAM!

The little valley they left one day
Still under the moonlight gleames….
And POE said He was happy there….
In that LAND….by the sea of dreams!

And the moon never beams…
Without bringing him dreams….
AND THE STARS THAT WERE BRIGHT AS HER EYES!
AND THE SPRINGTIME VALLEY, THEY LEFT ONE DAY,
STILL……UNDER…..THE……MOONLIGHT……..LIES!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Beautiful Annable Lee.

Its out where the stacks of the harvest
Once stood in the trail of the “Boo”-
Who came humming along with his PITCHFORK;
And….stayed till the NORTHERLEES BLOW!

Its out where the SUNSETS ARE GLEAMING-
In purple and russet and GOLD!
And I’m THERE, tho I know I am dreaming-
ONLY DREAMS, OF THE GLAD DAYS OF OLD!

Its a WIDE PRAIRIE LAND, and its calling-
Me back to my TRACTOR and PLOW;
And I know it will ALWAYS BE MY LAND…..
THE HOME OF MY HEART, IN THE HILLS.

Where the wild flowers bloom, in the Springtime-
And the “thunder heads” roll in the WEST;
And the moonlight comes stealing and stealing
Through the night, from those old SKIES OF DREAM!

YOU may think I was “making a poem”-
I am NOT…..I AM WEAVING A SONG-
Like the songs that the wind sang in summer,
To the heart of a child…. ALL DAY LONG!

The roses still bloom in the wheatfield-
And the WEST is a bright sea of gold-
Tho I try, Oh I know I can’t tell you-
ALL THESE STORIES…My Memories Told!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Home of the Hills.