Morris Stephenson

from 'Sing with the Wind'

Published by Envirobook 1989

 

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 spead

I seemed to draw delight from that sky,

And with the earth was bouyantly 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 itwas laughing down at mein 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 aquivcr,

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: "Davey" is the old local name of the Deua River

 

 consequat.

 

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 atthecreek, with bubbles agleam,

At her mirrored face she glanced,

With silver splinters she sprinkled the riU,

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