VIVID

Gymnasts crawl across the opera house ,

Sails billow in the seeming wind as

Pixilated patterns swirl.

Always iconic the harbor  even more alive

As rainbow colours and metropolis men

March across the face of the museum

And lights flash and dance across the Rocks.

Cars and planes navigate the sharp corners of

The Customs house as the facade rises and falls in ever changing hue

Dark ripples from the harbor, illuminated by the ubiquitous ferries,

the perfect backdrop framed, as always, by the bridge

And from the throng

Exudes a contented, exuberant joy.

It  is

Simply

Vivid.

The Gorge

The Katherine River pours through the gorge

Cliffs, trees and birds soar above

To remind us

We are but temporary visitors to this timeless place

Our puny paddles leaving but a momentary ripple

Tree roots, tiny and vast,

Cling improbably to imperceptible cracks,

And metres higher a tree stands  strong

Against all odds.

Along the bank,  gums lie at impossible angles

Eloquent testimony to the power of flood

Pandanus curve and swoop over the water

Air roots intertwined and inseparable.

Above, beautiful salmon guns

Add their own tint

Clawed foot marks crawl across sandy inlets

Crocodile Nesting Site  an

Unnecessary warning.

We are seen, but see not.

But it is the cliffs

Multifaceted, uplifted in aeons past

granite and earth fired clay

Water worn to mystical colours and shapes

Which provide the real  awe

That and the sense of peace

When

Leaving all other boats behind

We share the river with itself

And in its rippling silence

It whispers to us

Of ages past.

Rest Eternal

On million dollar land

overlooking Coogee Bay

lie hundreds of graves.

Memorials to cardinals, sailors, politicians

and tragically young children.

The monuments huge, minimalist,

gaudy and plain, all share  regret, love,  loss,

eulogise a life,

and  proclaim  safe eternal rest.

The graveyards tumble down the slope

once cherished stones  in arresting disorder,

weeds and thistles wind their slow decay

and proud statues lose fingers, hands, even heads.

Moss erodes the loving words composed

by those themselves long gone.

The only colour a pathetic bunch of wilted flowers.

Plastic.

Sitting atop the tallest statue

perched precariously on a tilted, broken arm

a Raven, cawing,

Nay laughing

At our arrogance.

Les Littleford. 2/05/2012

Views from a train

Natti River, Mittagong, Bund, Tallong, Towrang,

Unfamiliar echoes of our past

But today they fly past the carriage window

And inactive we observe a cinematic view

Forgotten  scenes

Of bypassed country towns.

The  stations wear a defiant gloss

And on platforms

The old family rituals prevail

Differing only in dress

Lovers still cling to every second

And wave until our screen has long refocussed

Parents stand proudly

As just post adolescent children move on

Uncertain whether to hug or shake hands

While others, returning, seem

Carefree to be home

And the now diesel iron horse

Still carries vital supplies

The hills of the sheep’s back roll past

Dotted like ancient landscapes

But now interspersed

With blue gum and vine

And labour free modernities

Rotting sleeper mounds

Replaced with functional

Green sensitive soulless concrete

Provide documentary comment

Decaying sheds with

Ragged stacks of rusting dreams

A sepia reminder

Of glories past

Sudden splashes of colour

Ochre, red and black

Redolent of the scope and age

Of this Australia

Its dotted treescapes

Vast horizons

Portentous clouds

The curtain of skyscrapers

And urban sprawl

Draws across our screen

We leave our seats

And return to the  world we know

Enriched by images

Of how we got here

And what we have lost.

[ Reflections on a train trip from Sydney to Melbourne]

Les Littleford     May 2009

The Gorge at Sunset

The call of the night owl echos through the gorge

as it has for countless generations.

The  sun pierces horizon clouds

and highlights  serrated ridges

carved from the canyon since time began.

As the sun fades

the massing cumulus to the east turn blue and grey .

The blue black  river glides  ever darker

and rocks, still hot to touch, lose their glow.

The inherent  romance of sunset

lacquered with history and time.

This is  sacred Jawoyn land ,

Resonant with mystery and beauty.

Individual trees acrest the ridges

stand  sentinel  to a bygone age.

The land of the rainbow serpent

laid out for miles before our eyes,

empty as far as the eye can see,

yet crammed with timeless memories

which here, in The Gorge , at sunset,

seem profoundly at peace.

The gentle Bellarine curves framed the water

as my kayak and I slid into the rippling bay.

It was perfect, sunny, windless autumn.

On distant mud flats Black Swans ,

imperious,

strutted their stuff,

and took off in an overture of beating wings

when I dared to get close.

Pelicans sailed like ancient junks,

their prows staunchly curved into the wind,

those ancient eyes twinkling with joy,

confident in their splendour.

The only sounds were the rhythmic dipping of my paddle,

The water sluicing gently under my hull,

and the distant, background, all pervasive cacophony

of unnumbered birds.

Along the banks were opulent homes

with million dollar views

but out here,

lulled by the tide and awed by beauty

I was the millionaire.

Broken  Dreams

Across the wind scraped, sun baked paddocks of the Never Never

They stand

like rust encrusted Boabs

overflowing  only with forgotten memories

and broken dreams.  Winter winds entangle spinifex ,

summer sun patterns the rust

and the flood cleans everything

as it always has. This was the new Eldorado

across the Inland Sea .Mirages both .

The oldest of lands in harmony with

nomadic survival

but  settlement indifferent.

Too hot

Too  dry

Too wet

Too  far.

The land’s enduring strength revealed

by ruins   of grand designs

enveloped by creeper and vine

eroded by flood

warped by heat.

And  belittled by Indigenous  beauty .

Sweeping chasms, giant forests, sculptured rock.

While the marvels of their  age

Stand in the sun

And rust.

Les Littleford   4/11/2010

[Across the parched landscape of the northern interior can be seen long disused, rusting, steam engines standing desolate and alone in vast paddocks. ]

LEICHARDT  WINTER SATURDAY  6.00 pm

Overhead steel birds pierce the gloom

On Norton Street persistent rain fails to quell the sense of life

As a damp Saturday afternoon slides into a wet evening

Time for choice between late coffee or early wine

As waiters set tables with candles and starched linen

Casual casual  gives way to casual chic

Neon flash, shops close, raindrops dance in car lights

And though the rain still falls even the dark is vibrant.

FROM THE HUME

It’s so dry

The highway stretches  endlessly from town to town

And it’s all so dry

Great gums whither in the parched air

Leaves curled in surrender

Waiting patiently, desperately, for rain.

Strands of verdant green amongst the grey gums

Betray hidden remnants of waterways

But they too are dry

The sculptured, rolling hills are grey

Etched with dry creeks

Like veins on a dying man’s hand

Tractors trail dust from useless paddocks ;

Cattle follow the fodder trail

While pale grass wilts in the still only October sun

Empty dams , dry creeks, dying trees.

Beneath  the roar of trucks I hear the earth gasp –

Parched, thirsty, dry.

And trees, cattle, farmers,

Wait patiently, desperately, hopelessly.

FOX

He told  me of a fox he shot

and of the 26 lamb’s tongues he discovered in its stomach.

Big hands, soft  eyes, quiet tones

he told  me of the twenty four hour search

to find the 26 muted lambs

and bring them peace.

The backdrop was a Country Music festival,

a celebration of all things rural

and that essentially Australian

continuing battle between drought and flood,

wind and fire.

His grief was  for their plight.

I was struck by his anguish at this seemingly unnatural act.

Our chatter,

interspersed with music,

created a context

where the land and its animals

were in  communion,

and his role was to celebrate this.

We shared a bottle of wine

and I became enthralled by his passion

for renewing his paddocks,

for caring for his stock,

for maintaining a natural balance.

His quiet tones became animated

as he recalled the improvements he had made,

the big hands agile

as he demonstrated new techniques,

his soft eyes glistened as he recounted failures.

But there was no anger. This was the natural world.

He knew that, and loved it .

But in this , his world,

he could find no place

for a fox.