My mind drifts off as I cruise the highway
guiding me home passed the turn-off to Hay
headed for Leeton where my roots are entrenched,
I drop in to the Yanco, for a thirst to be quenched.
Looking across to the park where we once played
waiting to go fishing, (or wait for dad in the shade)
Sunny river days were spent from when young
benieth an old She-oak where flood debri hung
the meandering Murrumbidgee naturaly free
seduces the soul and is now calming to me.
Memories remain firmly entrenched
of sliding or jumping, (but either way drenched)
down grey clay banks some twenty foot deep,
off tracks down to the water, well carved by sheep.
The rustle of leaves calling the breeze,
babbling brown river sets senses at ease
as cockatoos screech and gather to flock
fly the river en mass and playfully mock.
They settle on a bend in a grove of trees
and rip off bark with consumate ease
chasing grubs'n bugs or seeds in the pod
as we baited the hooks in hope for a cod.
Wisps of smoke rise
through old red Gums
as the billy boils away
and the blowie hums
enhancing the smell of silt, embedded in wood
with a strong eucalypt tang to make the cuppa taste good.
Taken for granted by those
caught up in lifes hectic pace
Serindipitous to those
who have no need to race.
Remorse sets in when it's time
to go back to my present home
leaving behind those grey banks
and the dusty red loam...
