There is waving of grass in the breeze
And a song in the air.
And a murmur of myriad bees
That do toil everywhere.
There is scent in the blossom and bough,
And the breath of the spring
Is as soft as a kiss on a brow -
And springtime I sing.
There is drought on the land, and the stock
Tumble down in their tracks
And follow - a tottering flock -
The scrub-cutter's axe.
While ever a creature survives
The axes shall swing;
We are fighting with fate for their lives -
And the combat I sing.
-- A B Paterson
SingerOfTheBush is fighting her final drought. She's had plenty of practice in nearly eighty years, and she's not about to give up now. SongOfThePen is her 2-i-c in battle, and I'm helping keep their axe-blades sharp. Their battle isn't mine, but even this small role is exhausting.
In a parallel universe (that happens to occupy exactly the same place in the space-time continuum), SingerOfTheBush is singing her final springtime. I'm delighted to have been invited to listen. It's not all bees and blossoms - she takes "walks" around the neighbourhood with SongOfThePen's dog (deceased for three years), and their habitual quarrelsome relationship continues unchanged. The community bus driver continues his old bad habits of tardiness and stopping at other than the designated place (but now she needs to berate him for it at 4am). Still, the latest generation of sparrow nestlings are taking their training flights from the shed gutter to the clothes line, and a hunk of Turner's bung fritz tastes as good as it did in the 1930s, so she knows the world is getting along ok.
Yesterday, she got to go out of the house for real, to see the doctor. Sat in the waiting room, watching the medical receptionists typing up case notes, a familiar glint in her eyes, she poked SongOfThePen in the ribs and asked, "Do you see that one? Not the one closest, the one further away?" He nodded; she nodded in return; then she imparted: "Like a Fox in a Birdbath. That's what she looks like. That one." SongOfThePen worries, a little, that this made sense to him, but he's more readily reassured than some people I know.
PS
Some of you know SongOfThePen as K.
And a song in the air.
And a murmur of myriad bees
That do toil everywhere.
There is scent in the blossom and bough,
And the breath of the spring
Is as soft as a kiss on a brow -
And springtime I sing.
There is drought on the land, and the stock
Tumble down in their tracks
And follow - a tottering flock -
The scrub-cutter's axe.
While ever a creature survives
The axes shall swing;
We are fighting with fate for their lives -
And the combat I sing.
-- A B Paterson
SingerOfTheBush is fighting her final drought. She's had plenty of practice in nearly eighty years, and she's not about to give up now. SongOfThePen is her 2-i-c in battle, and I'm helping keep their axe-blades sharp. Their battle isn't mine, but even this small role is exhausting.
In a parallel universe (that happens to occupy exactly the same place in the space-time continuum), SingerOfTheBush is singing her final springtime. I'm delighted to have been invited to listen. It's not all bees and blossoms - she takes "walks" around the neighbourhood with SongOfThePen's dog (deceased for three years), and their habitual quarrelsome relationship continues unchanged. The community bus driver continues his old bad habits of tardiness and stopping at other than the designated place (but now she needs to berate him for it at 4am). Still, the latest generation of sparrow nestlings are taking their training flights from the shed gutter to the clothes line, and a hunk of Turner's bung fritz tastes as good as it did in the 1930s, so she knows the world is getting along ok.
Yesterday, she got to go out of the house for real, to see the doctor. Sat in the waiting room, watching the medical receptionists typing up case notes, a familiar glint in her eyes, she poked SongOfThePen in the ribs and asked, "Do you see that one? Not the one closest, the one further away?" He nodded; she nodded in return; then she imparted: "Like a Fox in a Birdbath. That's what she looks like. That one." SongOfThePen worries, a little, that this made sense to him, but he's more readily reassured than some people I know.
PS
Some of you know SongOfThePen as K.
posted by:
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Australia
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Re: Singer of the Bush
Wed, November 17, 2004 - 2:19 PMfar out... more stories please!
(dunno'fi kin hannel any more bung fritz to...) -
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Re: Singer of the Bush
Thu, November 18, 2004 - 2:41 AMI'm living too close to this story to write *much* just yet, but I'm sure you'll hear when I do.
Fritz - I'm astonished you know what it is. Nine out of ten Australians would call it something else (Devon, Luncheon Meat), and I have no idea what it might be called anywhere else in the world (or if, indeed, anyone else even makes it). I don't eat the stuff myself, but I can appreciate SingerOfTheBush's fondness for it.
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