Some people put together words in ‘poems’ (more like prose)
In liquid, lilting language… but I can’t be one of those.
Writing lines of sweet description, wandering on (and off) the page,
Evocative…provocative…like dancers, on a stage…
Try as I may, can’t do it, I need a formal crutch –
My words must rhyme, and beat in time…old-fashioned, out of touch!
I was bred, and raised, with Clancy…Mulga Bill…The Drover’s Wife;
Dorothea’s ‘wilful, lavish land’ has nourished all my life!
With ‘the lustrous, purple blackness of the soft Australian night’
Wrapped round me like a silken shawl then all must turn out “write”!
When the Man from Snowy River lets that pony have his head
Those flying flintstones show you how the poem should be read!
I’ve tried channelling Les Murray… but, so far, all we share
Is our choice of rural lifestyle and the comfy clothes we wear.