Nature

The Pacific Heron

Perched on a post: long-beaked, long-leggéd,

Lustrous blue-grey plumage issuing 

In the slendering ivory throat

Of old Uccello’s dragon-princess, 

Posing like a magazine model.

Grounded: stately pace, undulating

Head (more graceful than chooks’, the contrast

Between distance runners and sprinters),

Mimicking, terrestrially, the 

Grandeur and elegance of eagles.

 

An Odd Affinity

Gorgeous, airy butterfly,

Fluttering over flowers

That it gently ravishes

And promotes.

Compare skulking earthbound snake,

In slithery search of prey

It indifferently slays

And gulps down. 

Seemingly so distinct, like

Heaven and earth - yet cousined

By cold blood!

 

Eyeballing a Turtle

Off to Galapagos,

With one top ambition:

‘I want to look into

The eyes of a turtle’.

For on Galapagos,

It’s claimed, turtles don’t fear

Human beings, and meet

Their gaze without flinching.

But a question remains:

What posture will engage

Low-lying turtle eyes -

Prone, kneeling, or lofty? 

 

From Her Garden

Tiny, perfect golden rose

In sunshine on the table

Coyly smiles, and winks at me.

 

A Sunflower Sets

Sunflowers are great and golden,

And mighty tall with leaves of green.

Oliver was such a one,

P’raps the grandest ever seen. 

Alex and Katy sowed his seed

Deep in the Three Peaks vegie patch.

He grew so fast and thrusting

That his siblings could not match.

He had a chocolate centre

And a massive glowing moon-face,

Bigger than a dinner plate,

Rising lofty from his base. 

Then came the time for holiday. 

Could Oliver be forsaken?

‘No, no,’ was the firm reply,

‘Of all, he must be taken!’

And so he was (two-metres brief)

Sitting lordly on the backseat,

His golden face surveying

All who passed by on the street.

And as we drove along the way,

He attracted many glances

(Some amused, some bewildered)  

And fingers like wee lances.

Throughout it all, Oliver seemed

Quite aloof and unaffected.

But things were otherwise, as 

Too soon could be detected. 

Far out along the Ocean Road 

A brilliant yellow petal

Did fall sudden from his face!

Yet worse would test his mettle.

Staying at Apollo Bay, in

Hot and unfamiliar places,

Tried him sore; and his distress  

Left daily mounting traces.

One by one, his petals tumbled

(His leaves drooping ever lower):

A sight that brought great sadness 

To his most loving grower.

At last, no longer proud, he turned

Into just another folly

Who had, accordingly, to 

Be down-named, ‘Sloppy Ollie’.

And when it came to leave for home,

This sad Ollie of low repute,

And such bedraggled mien, was 

Lothly banished to the boot. 

 
























Weird

It was a sweet spring morning,

A gentle day was dawning. 

But vegie patch, free from night

Yet still shadowed from the light,

Green-glowed eerie in my sight.  

 

Wild is Not for Romantics

She’d always dreamed of strolling through a wildwood,

Far off, where deferential daffodils droop,

Lacing tree branches gentle furnish a hood,

And graceful gazelles occasionally troop.

But when the day came, optimistically,

The dream foundered on wildwood reality.

Three hungry mosquitos and one angry bee:

That’s all that it took to persuade her to flee.

 

Galapagos Interview

Q: Tell me, fresh returned from

Darwin’s isles as you are,

Did you get to look a

Turtle in the eye as

You once said you wanted?

A: Yes, and tortoises too;

And no need to grovel

(As you once suggested),

For their reptilian

Eyes looked bland up to mine.

   

Q: And what of that famous

Old tortoise, Lonely George?

A: He’s no longer lonely;

His isle’s now replete with

Matching Chelonian

Beauties; though his manhood

Is still to be proven.

Q: What else took your fancy

On the Galapagos?

A: Sleek seals and ill-favoured

Lizards, among others;

But above all the birds,

Multitudinous birds,

That wheeled and stalked all round.

Q: What’s special about that?

A: They had no fear of us!

From garish Frigate bird

To bullish sea lion,

All gazed calmly on us

And did not back away.

It is another world.

 

A Pattern of Birds

Four snowy Ibis

Flow undulating 

As in a ballet,

Westward to the sun.

In the river gums 

Beneath, armies of

Cockatoos swarm like

Pale, raucous maggots.

Sudden, from the south,

A great black Eagle 

Soars highest, and like   

A monarch passes. 

 

The Ducks on My Dams

One admires the Mallards,

big and handsome, for the

Elegance they impart;

But, in truth, it’s the dowdy,

Cuddly little Wood ducks

That really warm one’s heart. 

 

A Day Ends in the Goulburn Valley

Storm clouds sullenly billow,  

And hills vanish behind their

Mordor-like ramparts; then the

Shadow crosses the river.

Sudden, stabbing from the west, 

A dying sun hurls a bold

Golden lance setting the great  

Gums in the valley ablaze.

Like fiery torches, they burn

In a moment of glory. 

Then the lance slowly retreats,

Pursued by triumphant dark.

 
Avian Discipline I

In perfect unison,

Hundreds of wee fawn birds  

Swirl, cheeping, into high

Grass, fall silent a trice,

Whirl up noisy to curl

Down:  again and again.

They flow like deep water 

Across jutting boulders;

And at each silent pause,

Like an army, sentries

Assume a position 

On adjacent fence-lines. 

 











Avian Discipline  II

Big midnight-dark crows,

Three dozen or so,

Cackling marauders,

Frenziedly feed in 

And out of tall grass:

No pattern, no flow.

But once the madness   

Is done, they fall in

Like an honour guard, 

Dignified, silent,

Alert on fence-posts,  

Both sides of the track. 

They even accept

Presidential-paced

Human inspection

Between ranks - until

Clumsy camera 

Puts them to flight!

 A Magical Hunt
2014

Late on a hellish
Hot fire-danger day
(When country eyes scanned
Skies for sign of smoke),
Wind came fierce and
Sudden from the south.

On its wild wings, hordes
Of hapless insects
Equal sudden drew
Out flocks of swallows  
From shadowed shelters, 
Eager to the hunt.

They ignored the gale,
Feasted free and danced
(Oh, so merrily)
With swirling flowing
Grace, all in ever 
Perfect harmony.

The Precocious Geranium:
             A True Story

2016

Hard-pruned, it long cowered beside 
A great camellia bush, lush,
Lofty, pampered and full of pride.

Then one day, a careless pruner
Missed one lucky, plucky shoot that
Seized the chance for floral glory.

It secret slithered deep into
Its neighbour’s heart, turned its eye to
Heaven and began to clamber.

And so, late last spring, one small red
Flower rose like a queen, topping
The sea of white camellias!

  Of Cacophonous Beauty
2017

Snow-white, yellow-tufted Cockatoos; 
Ravens, pitch-black (blue lights in the sun);
Both so starkly handsome, so large, so
Stately stalking, and in untrammelled
Flight so indolently graceful.

But, oh, they speak: the picture shatters!    
So harsh, so strident, overwhelming 
The warm warbling lower world - perhaps 
Ruffling even the upper where black
Eagles wheel in dignified silence. 

Three Levels of Grandeur

2023

The tree, a great ghost gum 

Looms beside Regis east Malvern. 

Most see it first as they turn from 

Reception to get on with things. 

  

A massive trunk, flawlessly smooth, 

Straight as the stem of a lily.  

But stunningly partial.  

So it’s up a floor, to a bigger glass wall. 

 

There, the stern trunk concedes

Two mighty, bare branches 

That then, like true gents, stop short 

To allow a soft, feminine flourish. 

  

So, it’s up once more, another glass wall.  

Here, the foliage reaches for heaven, 

Becomes a multiple flower-head, 

Petalled with shapely green leaves,  

 

They crown the tree’s glory, 

Glowing in sunlight, sparkling in rain; 

And wildly dancing when the wind 

Sets them swirling, like massed tethered eagles.