BALLOONS

                                       BALLOONS

In the eastern, morning light,

Such an unexpected sight-

Three balloons soft-drift on by,

Far upon the wide, bright sky.

One is orange; one is blue;

One a reddish-purple hue;

Riding on a breeze-born motion,

Vessels on an airy ocean.

From on high, they’re gazing down

To the earth beneath- the town

Seems like a map there, where below

Tiny, toylike people go.

Streets are gray lines shaped between

Rooftop red and treetop green.

River snake slides through the land,

Crossed by busy highway band.

So I imagine from down here,

Watching them drift on the clear

Sky of day until they are

Merely dots upon the far.

Sudden longing makes me sigh

To be lost upon the sky,

Seeking strange adventurous ways
Beyond the skyline of my days.

Then I think how mind can dare

To explore without a care

Through vast realms of time and space

And like an airship leave no trace.

As I turn away to do

All the tasks of this day’s due

In my mind I see that I

Can still fly on thought’s clear sky-

And, at times, swap earth-bound sight

For this riding in the light,

Looking at the broader scene,

Showing what the details mean.

I turn to take a final view

But they’ve vanished in the blue,

Leaving but this thought behind

Of the freedom of the mind.

SILVER AND GOLD

Ballina, NSW

Far to the west, behind the shadowed town,

Surrounded by a blaze of gold sea-haze,

The dazzling, gold-bright sun was sinking down,

And filling eyes with golden, fire rays

And spreading over misted sky a gown

Of golden light and over river waves

A gold-paved pathway to the skyline blaze.

Far to the east, arising with the night,

White-haloed on the wide sea’s cloud-strewn sky,

The bright moon’s silver face was gaining light,

White, silver light as day was passing by,

That spread a shining path, all sparkling-bright,

Across the sea- cool, silver shimmering

That danced across the ocean’s billowing.

So on one side the eastern ocean

Was thus a world of silver motion

And on the other, last of day

Was golden with the sun’s last ray…

There in the middle I could stand

With silver and gold on either hand.

Forest Waterfall

                                 FOREST WATERFALL

Along the ridge there flows a stream

And on it rippling sunbeams gleam

As it flows peacefully along

With its most gentle, gurgling song.

But then it reaches cliff-top fall

And yet it doesn’t pause or stall

But flows into the open space,

Impelled to reach the lower place.

Its droplets spray, lit by day’s light,

As they fly downward from the height

To weave bright rainbow colours there

That shimmer through the misty air.

They crash into the pool below

And yet from it the waters flow

To run along the forest floor

And form a calm stream as before.

It flows through change and yet it stays

With its own nature and its ways-

For water takes the lowest course,

Returning to its ocean source.

For thus it flows and finds a way

Without a fuss or great display,

Avoiding all unwanted strife,

And yet it nourishes all life.

The January Man

           THE JANUARY MAN
            Southern Hemisphere
(With acknowledgement and apologies to Dave Goulder)

The January man takes holidays
And gazes through hot, summer haze,
At sand and foam, white in bright sun,
And thinks the year has just begun.

The February man sweats in the sun,
And sits in cool dusk when day’s done,
And sometimes sees wild, evening storms,
With lightning flash on vast, cloud forms.

The man of March knows summer’s gone,
And cooler autumn’s coming on,
And sees the days of sparkling light,
And days when drizzle dims the sight.

The April man finds summer’s flower
Is ripening to rich fruit now,
And knows the year’s well past its birth
And autumn are the clothes of earth.

The man of May sees light grow less,
As life slows in its autumn dress,
He sees the seed drop to the ground,
Feels winter’s foretaste all around.

The man in June wakes to cold dawn
And sees white frost upon the lawn;
The year goes through its shortest light
And sparkles stars in longest night.

And in July an ice wind blows
From far south lands, all filled with snows,
The year has passed its middle mark-
Night blankets blunt the bite of dark.

The August man sees dusk’s light rose,
Around the skyline its shimmer shows
That soon the winter too will go
And spring will bring new warm sun-glow.

September man will greet the spring
And see new shoots in everything,
And now fresh days feel warm and longer,
Impulse of life once more grows stronger.

While white clouds dream on sun-bright sky
And swallows wheel and flit on by,
The smiling October man is resting
Where bushes bud and birds are nesting.

November man views shining days,
All shimmering in rippling haze
Of growing heat and greater sun,
And knows the spring has almost gone.

December man greets summer’s sun
And sees the year’s long race is run.
He tells eleven brothers how
They’re all a little older now.

Once more the January man appears,
Beginning all the turning years,
In every change of life and weather,
Upon a road that runs forever.

AUTUMN SIGHT

AUTUMN SIGHT

Morning-bright

In the light,

On a white

Cedar tree,

I can see,

From afar,

One galah.

With gray wings

There it clings

On a high

Branch in sky.

I can catch

Just a patch

Of rich pink-

And I think

We both share

Autumn air,

Autumn sight

In the light,

Morning-bright.

THE WIZARD' WONDERFUL WATERING CAN

THE WIZARD'S WONDERFUL WATERING CAN

A wizened, wise, old wizard went, with speed,
With his wonderful, watering can,
To water a patch of withered, old weed.

The sprinkle and sparkle of water-drops ran
Like tears down the leaves: brown, withered, and old;
And wherever he watered the weeds were spun
To sprouting, green plants with flowers silver and gold,
With flowers from the moon and the sun.

His pupil saw this wonderful spring
And thought he'd do the same sort of thing.

He went with the wonderful, watering can
And watered some flowers, not weed.
He thought, "This will be fine, indeed!"

The sprinkle and sparkle of water-drops ran
Like tears down the flowers, yellow and red;
And wherever he watered the flowers were spun
Into withered, old weeds with leaves grey and dead:
The cold of the moon, the heat of the sun.