There are no houses here
just hills with billabongs
sheep raiding pastures
each contained to its own
and the greeness of the valley
is submerged within my being
bearing the streams from the sun

There are trees smiling
attired in greeness and sheen
whilst others are withered
unbranched, unclothed, branded
each to its own paradise
unaware of the other’s existence
reserved in framed ponds

Thoughts to Cootamundra
where reasons are sacrificed
and the words muted are said
and each passageway is a memory
that reforms my tapestry
awaiting the hushed winter winds
at the heart of the autumn breeze