Colin F. Jones

THE ROAD WEST

~ 1 ~

More oft, the northeast wind doth bend the trees,
Than breezes from the southern salty swells,
Which lift the waves with the greatest ease,
To chase the fishes from the rugged shelves.
Along the golden shores frail structures bathe,
In sun and salt and often wind borne spray,
Where sea gulls in their hundreds misbehave,
And in the sand dunes, the Mutton Birds do play.
White Whales in their seasons ride the waves,
Heading north towards the warmer seas,
And dolphins visit river mouths and bays,
Where sheltered inlets put them at their ease.
In the sky, the moon, which works the swells,
Sees the boat sail out towards the shelves.

~ 2 ~

Black and white makes no sense to me,
For both are different shades of grey,
And both have eyes that sternly look at me,
For I am carved in bronze beside the bay,
From where the water pumped for both to drink,
Provides a life for ducks and turtles too,
And banks for people who just sit and think,
Or take a moments rest; and while they do,
Become a part of all that’s going on,
Among the reeds and on the muddy bar,
Another form displayed by wind and sun,
Part of the pattern of which we all are;
… and there I see a magpie taking flight,
and that to me but heightens my delight.

~ 3 ~

The road winds inland, grey and heading west,
It has no motion yet it seems to move,
Competing with the river in its quest,
As though it has significance to prove.
Fields and towns compete with hill and tree,
While air with smoke wrestle in the breeze,
The motorcar has multiplied to three,
The warming day now raised a few degrees.
The corn is golden in the morning sun,
And cabbage patches decorate the scape,
Tomatoes thrive and cucumbers have begun,
And in the fruit trees fruit bats cling and drape.
And folk inside their houses waking up,
Sit unaware with their coffee cup.

~ 4 ~

The white cat stirs; its orange eyes mere slits,
To watch the pigeon settle on the branch,
Which does not see the feline where she sits,
More interested in her own seedy lunch.
The village wakes, the storeman’s doors ajar,
The PO mail car draws up by the curb,
Cockatoos wail beyond the woodlands far,
The school bus waits for the chatting herd,
Of little children conformed in floppy hats,
And uniforms that classify their schools,
With puppy dogs and Mothers and their cats,
There to see them off in groups and pools,
While old men on the post bench quietly sit,
Revealing not what they might think of it

~ 5 ~

The Golden Dog[1] still smelling foul of grog,
Is subject to the pail and mopping brush,
As in the nearby field a rotting log,
Becomes the playground of a singing thrush.
Logging trucks from Tallawudjah creek,
Loaded with fine timbers for the mills,
Rumble through the valley every week,
To vanish in the misty sandstone hills.
A stock horse runs to show the world he’s free,
Dividing wallabies in his frightful surge,
As lazy cattle chewing cud do see,
A wondrous Brolga from the trees emerge,
To take smooth flight with giant wings wide spread,
Towards the sandstone cliffs not far ahead.

~ 6 ~

Upon the sandstone cliffs above Glenreagh,
A highland lake forms many waterfalls,
That spurt out silver streams; translucent spray,
Into the air where the whistling Eagle calls,
While swooping down the cliff sides in a dive,
To drift in wind along the rivers flow,
Seeking out a teal to deprive,
It of its life to help its young ones grow.
The cliffs are golden in the morning sun,
Where climbers of the sandstone test their skills,
Clinging to the ledges one by one,
Avoiding places where the water spills.
From the East, dark clouds work to the west,
With bolts of jagged lightning to invest.