6 currawongs
Perched on a bush
On a cliff
Suspended above the forest
The edge falling
To where the faint white spec of a cockatoo
Is illuminated against the moss green canopy

As the winds begin to gale
One currawong takes flight
Buoyed towards the clouds
He dips then soars with the breeze
Circumnavigates the cliffs
And dives towards another perch out of sight
His black and white complexion
Silhouetted against the mottled sandstone

The valley stretches below
And the hues change as the light begins to fade
Amongst the moss
The grey filaments of tree trunks
Reflect a purple aura into the undergrowth

A storm draws near
It sweeps across the valley
Pulling a veil over the landscape
As the once blue horizon
Is shrouded in a curtain of payne’s grey

A single lightening bolt illuminates a lone tower
A sentinel for a different time

As the rain descends
The sounds of Godoomba echo through the valley
The birds have taken voice
Mingling with the languages of humans
A symphony of song fills the vastness
The birds, the bells
The humans, the timpani and the fanfare

The storm has reached the cliff
And the once defined horizon
Has receded into the blanket of the clouds

The hues of blue and purple, moss and sand
Have become all shades of grey
As mother nature
And her blessed rain
Enfold the valley

© Kacey Patrick 2004

Katoomba – Written in-between gigs at ‘The Clarendon’.

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