The bushland calls
Of my childhood dreams
Amongst the wild
My soul it, sings

The gentle breeze
light upon the skin
Sun upon my face
it welcomes me in

To the lands of summers
Though now long gone

Memories of the heats haze
With a white juvenile horse
Within a closed off field it lay
But young and free it was born

Birds flying high above
Shielding the rays of the sky
Perfectly clear a crystal bright blue
Not a single cloud in sight

Fields filled with nothing
But the dirt beneath our feet
Dull patches of green and yellow
Amongst cattle it feeds

A rooster it crows loud
The chooks begin to run
As bruce, a little staffy
Chases them about

Work shed full of tools
Covered by a rusted tin roof
Parked beside it old barrols
And a broken down ute

Stone walls of the house
To keep it cool inside
Spread across the cold floors
A reddish brown cowhide

Worn down leather couch
Out upon the front porch
An eski filled with stubbies
Where the boys had their "talks"

I feel the memories flooding back
This peacefulness, this sense of home
Hours pass by within seconds
Losing myself in the zone

My footsteps have long faded with time
As has my name once carved upon the gumtrees
The white stallion no longer grazes near by
Nor do the same cattle dwell in that field

Worn down by time and way of the land
Though I do intend to return again
To share the beauty of this place
Drawn back by the old fate

The day melts away like the snow
And I hear my parent calling my name
This place will forever be my second home
Because I know here, I'll never be alone

I watch stars come out at night
These days they are my only friends
Giving me hope when all I have found
Are empty hallways strewn with dead ends

I look for an omen or sign
To tell me it's not too late
A burning bush will never appear
It's not meant to be, still I wait

an azure hue
presides over our bush patch
an azure hue
such an imposing shade of blue
brilliant the colour in dispatch
of its resplendence there's no match
an azure hue

She was an argonaut
that paper nautilus discreet
where an edict for office
still home for a style
if their buzz did set a trend
that syndicated grams  
and lingered with a spruce Cabernet
while it torched their foray  
that whirred travel to the dale
of Welsh Mount Snowdon  
where I sought Kopechne
if squires didn't vaunt missions
with these measured students
and were really left behind!