As years roll on by and amass, as memories wash through my mind,
I think of the teachers I knew - enthused, dedicated and kind.

Although I am saddened to think I've left it too late to express
My thanks for their guidance and care, I pen these few lines nonetheless.

You taught us the beauty of words, their magical, rhythmical scope;
The bards of the past came alive: Lord Byron and Wordsworth and Pope:

Whose ocean waves rolled o'er the wrecks, whose daffodils danced in the breeze,
Whose solitude's peaceful embrace filled minds in a lighthearted frieze.

With Masefield we sailed the high seas, deep gorges pealed Kendall's bellbird;
Our love of Australia's scenes Mackellar's lines fostered and stirred.

You took us to far away lands: with Cook and Columbus we sailed;
Dark African jungles explored and triumphed when danger assailed.

We trekked through the deserts with Sturt, the camels weighed down with their packs;
With convicts we laboured and cursed and felt the "9-Tails" lash our backs.

You taught us allegiance and truth, a pride in the land of our birth,
Respect for our leaders and peers, belief in ourselves and our worth.

You moulded, inspired and charged our minds to imagine and feed
On beauty, adventure and charm, distinguishing evil and greed.

Belatedly now I say thanks for efforts to quicken and lead
to animate, instil, equip young minds as you wished us God speed.












LOOKING BACK

When we were young how slowly swung
The pendulum of time;
Through freedom's cloud in guileless shroud
Of innocence we'd climb.

We played outdoors on sandy shores
Or through the bush we'd charge;
With enterprise charades devise:
Adventurers at large.

We weren't as smart, advanced in art,
Technology or sport
As kids today locked in the fray
Of competition's court.

We worked and planned, horizons scanned
As destiny unscrolled.
Days came and went with gentle bent -
And 60 seemed so old!

Now years have passed, their shadows cast
And Time's momentum beats
The Piper's drift in tempo swift
As memory's tape repeats.









HOMETOWN SOJOURN

I returned to the town of my childhood
Where a river of memory springs,
Where my days were unhassled and carefree,
When time floated on whimsical wings.

There’s our first home, a relic of wartime,
With its buildings converted to train
The young people in sporting endeavours:
Fun and friendship stressed moreso than fame.

There’s the old mango tree in the back yard,
Now the swing rope hangs languid and still;
There’s the creek where the mythical bunyip
Hid his prey to be eaten at will.

There’s the school with its playground and classrooms,
Where our teachers inspired and strived;
By such methods today termed outmoded,
On the basic 3R’s we all thrived.

There’s the corner store where we would gather
Before strolling with friends to our school;
There's the picture theatre, the café,
The Girl Guide hut, the salt water pool.

There’s the cemetery with its old tombstones
Where my brother in skeleton gear
Greeted folk with his ghostly renditions,
Laughed to see them take flight in their fear.

There’s the Sunday School hall we attended,
To hear stories in Biblical theme;
There’s the tumbledown house where my friend lived
In the bush by the overgrown stream.

Now my home town has gained city status;
High rise buildings stand tall to the sky;
Modern houses encroach on the bushland,
Tourists, restaurants, resorts meet the eye.

But I saw not what progress engendered
As I wandered Nostalgia’s Domains;
The memories of my happy childhood
Defied changes progression ordains.









SCHOOL DAYS

Times tables and mental arithmetic,
School Readers with tales of Dora and Dick;
Analysis, parsing, geography,
Explorers who crossed the land and the sea.

Strict teachers for whom we held great respect,
Who moulded young minds in ways circumspect.
Headmasters, inspectors we held in awe,
Believed without question their word was law.

So different from ours the class rooms today:
Respect and adherence not on display.
Such emphasis placed on freedom of speech,
One wonders if it's the children who teach!









WISHFUL THINKING

I wish, I wish, I wish I lived amidst an outback scene:
Where tall gum trees sway melodies from mesa to ravine.

I wish, I wish, I wish my lot was cast by seaside scape:
Where white caps flirt in bright concert within their aqua drape.

I wish, I wish, I wish each day I'd wake to travels new,
Cross gibber plains devoid of rains where once great forests grew.

I wish, I wish, I wish my feet could tramp the gorge's floor
Whose walls are scoured by forces powered by Nature's thund'rous roar.

I wish, I wish, I wish to see the stairway to the moon
Where golden beams like magic dreams dance to the waters tune.

I wish, I wish, I wish to hear the bush as night time falls:
Beneath the stars in Heaven's vase, wild creature's mating calls.









SUMMER SOJOURN

Come visit me in Sweden, but not in the winter's chill
When days are long and dark and drear,
When ghostly thoughts attend with fear,
When creatures hibernate unseen and life itself stands still.

Come visit me in Sweden when the summer flowers bloom;
When bird songs through the air resound,
When creatures of the bush abound,
When Nature's beauty mushrooms like a bursting from the womb.

Come visit me in Sweden when the sun's rays douse the land,
When we can sit by bubbling streams,
When our minds overflow with dreams;
When memories are sifted like a thousand grains of sand.

I see us now in Sweden walking through the flowers wild,
While reminiscing of times past
From Friendship's book whose pages cast
Nostalgic thoughts of other days when summer's sunshine smiled.









BY THE CREEK

I followed the track to the winding creek
Where sunlight and shadows played hide and seek,
Where tall gum trees bowed to the waters clear
Which blithefully bubbled o'er rock and tier.

I picnicked with Nature who shared her fare
Of magical morsels dispelling care;
From platters of beauty absorbed her charm,
And drank of her cup filled with endless calm.

Beyond to the green of the pasture land,
Birds' echoing calls trilled in tuneful strand.
The mountains exuded a hazy sheen
Protecting bush creatures wild, unseen.

I lay on the ground, watched the gum trees sway,
Imagined I owned a bush hideaway
With stream running by bearing fish to catch,
Some cows, a few chooks and a vegie patch.

To wake up each morn to the birds' chorale –
A lively elixir to lift morale;
To sit by the campfire when night descends
Alone, but not lonely or lacking friends.

Words written by Paterson came to mind,
Lamenting his lot in the city's bind;
Expressing his envy of Clancy's life
Away from the mainstream of bustling strife.

Though futile my wish, like his, that I
To life in the city could say goodbye,
Whene'er I indulge in fair fancy's flight
My spirit returns to that bush delight.












SCHOOL PHOTOS

I found some old school photos dating back to ’48,
The days of squeaky pencils when we wrote upon the slate.

Most pupils sitting straight of back, hands clasped on laps, just so,
The smaller boys, each bare of foot, adorning the front row.

I singled out a face or two which time declined to fade:
Young Charlie, my first love, whose hand I held while on parade.

Then Fred the mischief-maker who played jokes and double-dared;
My best friends, Dot and Ludy, with whom secret dreams were shared.

Then Pat whose eyesight was impaired when cracker night went wrong,
Sweet Ann so fair and graceful who could charm us with a song.

Engrossed I scanned those faces as the school day tapes rewound;
I wondered where they were today, what niche in life they’d found.

Of parents who were working class, post war, with dreams and goals
To elevate their children’s lives with education’s scrolls.

And thus I spent an hour or two reliving school yard years:
The friends, the games, the squabbles, all the laughter and the tears.









GARDENS OF THE MIND

The business of life so oft intrudes
To rob me of my day dreams and my moods;
But now and then a magic moment steals
Into my thoughts and turns reflection's wheels.

This memory bank of past impressions stored
Awaits me and invites to be explored.
I wander secret gardens in my mind,
Revisit friends and places as inclined.

Maybe a childhood friendship I renew –
And pranks of which our parents never knew.
Maybe I ponder scenes from teenage years:
Romances, hopes and launching new careers.

A special celebration I relive;
Those unique moments only love can give.
Sometimes to favoured Outback haunts I stroll
And pitch my tent beside a waterhole.

Or sleep within a Gobi Desert gur,
See sandhills through the sunshine's blazing blur;
Revisit folk I met in lands confined,
To poverty and torment's grief resigned.

Some relics scattered in my mind contain
Grim recollections born of grief and pain;
But I can choose to by-pass such as these
Meander only on the paths which please.

I trust with time my faculties will last
To day-dream and relive events long past;
To tread the gardens of my mind with calm,
Embracing recollections' tranquil balm.