Walking into the sun, the anaemic
Sun that lights Van Diemen’s land.
This week I have sung for my supper in seven towns.
I sleep in haysheds and corners
Out of the wind, wrapped in a wagga rug.
In the mornings pools of mist fragment the country,
Bits of field are visible higher up on rides,
Treetops appear, the mist hangs about for hours.
A drink at a valley river coming down
Out of Mount Ossa; climb back to the road,
Start walking, a song to warm these lips
White-bitten with cold.
In the hedges live tiny birds
Who sing in bright colours you would not hear
In your fast vehicles. They sing for minstrels
And the sheep...
In a poem by Michael Dransfield
