Black Fisher Swamp

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I grew up on a soldier settlement block at Wrattonbully in the south east of South Australia.  This is a poem about the swamp on our property.

Black necks rise within the reeds and

swans majestically glide

to island nests.

A red filigree cloaks the water’s surface

and dandelions dance around the fringe.

Frogs reiterate a di-tone, forever making the same point.

 

Bank upon bank of clouds march,

dotted by a squadron of ducks.

They circle and lower their landing carriages,

approach the watery runway

touchdown,

brakes hard on,

slow,

landed.

Such frantic movement is quickly absorbed into

the harmony of the whole scene.

 

A duckling pauses, peruses its surroundings,

shakes its head

and swims on.

 

The breeze plays against eardrums,

Light, swan honks, reeds swaying, ripples.

Enough to nurture the soul.

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