-
- Near, yet far, and powder blue it was
- As I lay pone upon that grassy hill,
- And wide and clearly fresh above me held
- In pure intensity the perfect hue.
- Easefully my careless limbs were spread
- I seemed to draw delight from that sky,
- And with the earth was
buoyantly impelled
- Through gentle, limpid and unchanging space.
-
- Restfully, my eyes were closed awhile,
- And when I opened them a cloud was there.
- The sun behind my head shone on its face
- And it was laughing down at me in glee.
- Its snowy depth and softness was most fair,
- Ah edged with gold and beautiful to see.
- I rose, and, stretching in the wind, beheld
- Long ramparts o'er the ocean building up,
- And down, Kiama-wards, raced to the sea.
-
- Once in a valley to the Cox I watched
- Round Sunrise Bluff, the clouds come gently
forth
- Like lambkins' fleeces floating evenly
- In upturned rivers slowly to the north,
- And all that peaceful motion dreamily
- Urged shut my eyes and from my heart its pain.
-
- And once on Korrowall the sky was clear
- And, standing on the edge of the abyss,
- The valleys seemed like bowls of cream, light
whipped,
- Foamy, piled thick to where the trees appear
- Above the drifting vapour curled and dipped,
- Clinging tenaciously where cliffs are sheer.
-
- There was a time when clouds were racing by
- And I ran too, along the meadowland;
- Tall, glorious poplars danced with leaves
aquiver,
- And with the beauty of the day my heart beat
high
- Beside Bendethera on the Dewey River,
- And pounded with the clouds across the sky.
-
- Morris Stephenson
- "The Sydney Bushwalker"
- November 1940
- Note: "Dewey" is the old local name
of the Deua River
-
-
|
-
- Gently the moon stole into the blue
- Deepening, darkening sky,
- Encouraged the fainthearted stars to shine
- And wink as they caught her eye.
- Perfect as nymphs in ivory carved
- In cool green leaves half seen
- Like statues, the gums with smooth pale limbs
- Reflected her pearly sheen.
- She laughed at the creek, with bubbles agleam,
- At her mirrored face she glanced,
- With silver splinters she sprinkled the
rill,
- The moss with diamonds enhanced
- And so, she passed on her downward way.
- The grass was wet with tears,
- But the stream talked darkly fickle moons,
- And its chuckles smote on our ears.
-
- Morris Stephenson
- "The Sydney Bushwalker"
- February 1941
-
|