From a rolling hill in one green Essex field,
A splendid, sweeping vista was suddenly revealed.
Rays of sunlight appeared marking the advent of dawn,
Invigorating the gully below on this placid morn.
Alas, it has been a season of yawns and weary sighs,
Each and every morning met with dreary eyes;
The sluggish shuffles; the weight of the world upon;
Several moons have waned since hope has shone.
Down By Mavers Hill
So down by Mavers Hill
There’s a backward kind of place.
A tiny forgotten blemish
Upon Melbourne’s glamorous face.
My nephew Fletcher, from this line,
Heed these words, wise words of mine.
I am your uncle, so trust me hence
Even if you think I make no sense.
Driftwood At Sunset
Far abreast of distant moored-up boats
The quiescent air engulfs each lung.
You taste briny salt upon your tongue;
As without haste, nonplussed driftwood floats,