South Of My Days Poem by Judith Wright

South Of My Days

Rating: 3.1


South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of bony slopes wincing under the winter,
low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-
clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silenced,
willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple
branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;
and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.

O cold the black-frost night. The walls draw in to the warmth
and the old roof cracks its joints; the slung kettle
hisses a leak on the fire. Hardly to be believed that summer will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler-roses,
thrust it's hot face in here to tell another yarn-
a story old Dan can spin into a blanket against the winter.
Seventy years of stories he clutches round his bones.
Seventy years are hived in him like old honey.

Droving that year, Charleville to the Hunter,
nineteen-one it was, and the drought beginning;
sixty head left at the McIntyre, the mud round them
hardened like iron; and the yellow boy died
in the sulky ahead with the gear, but the horse went on,
stopped at Sandy Camp and waited in the evening.
It was the flies we seen first, swarming like bees.
Came to the Hunter, three hundred head of a thousand-
cruel to keep them alive - and the river was dust.

Or mustering up in the Bogongs in the autumn
when the blizzards came early. Brought them down; we
brought them down, what aren't there yet. Or driving for Cobb's on the run
up from Tamworth-Thunderbolt at the top of Hungry Hill,
and I give him a wink. I wouldn't wait long, Fred,
not if I was you. The troopers are just behind,
coming for that job at the Hillgrove. He went like a luny, him on his big black horse.

Oh, they slide and they vanish
as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards.
True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof
cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash.
Wake, old man. This is winter, and the yarns are over.
No-one is listening
South of my days' circle
I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country
full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Bernard F. Asuncion 30 September 2017

Such an interesting poem to read....

3 7 Reply
Kumarmani Mahakul 30 September 2017

Beautiful poem with nice penmanship. Thanks and congratulations to her soul for being selected this poem as the poem of the day.

2 6 Reply
Nudershada Cabanes 30 September 2017

A delightful poem. I enjoyed the imagery.

2 6 Reply
Alexander Julian 30 September 2017

A special word makes for a nice gift. Lots of subtlety and direction here, with romantic vocabulary at command toward nature.

2 6 Reply
Gajanan Mishra 30 September 2017

all the same, all the truth, good one

2 5 Reply
hehe 10 September 2021

yum

3 0 Reply
hfdhahfuhdufhuhushdf 22 February 2018

i like memes xd wuss popping jimBo

9 9 Reply
Geeta Radhakrishna Menon 30 September 2017

No-one is listening South of my days' circle I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep. An elegant poem!

3 8 Reply
Subhas Chandra Chakra 30 September 2017

No-one is listening South of my days' circle I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep. Beautiful poem shared with us. Thanks poet.

3 7 Reply
Geoffrey Fafard 30 September 2017

South of my days.....! This poem this fantastic poem brings tears, smiles and memories to me here in my older days. It shines like the sun.

2 6 Reply
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES

Judith Wright

New South Wales / Australia
Close
Error Success