My father Robert Irvine wrote this poem while in Sydney hospital last week recovering from heart surgery (a far cry from the old dairy farm which inspired this poem). Bullock bells were the tools that allowed the early Australian settlers…
Category: Bush Poetry
versed poetry in the Australian tradition
And Music Filled the Old Church Once Again
Wandering the historic village of Hartley (just west of the Blue Mountains in NSW), we were thrilled when the men restoring the old Saint Bernard's Catholic Church unlocked the front door. My Uncle Richard, whose interest in sacred music and…
The Last of the Wattle
below eucalypts butcherbird plucks out a hymn bush cemetery the wattle lingered late that August year you left winter’s long goodnight © 2017 Melinda J. Irvine Daily Post: Pluck I'm part of Post A Day 2017
North-west of Goondiwindi
I’m about 97 miles north-west of Goondiwindi I’ve got a road-train indicating: time to move along and as I pass him on his right I dip my headlights into the night and the voice in my head it’s playin’ a…
Fifty Years
the big event is over the grandkids all gone home leftovers devoured by the dogs gifted, composted, thrown and now here I am reflecting on what it could mean to spend your life with just one person (FIFTY YEARS) of…