So Much Going On.

Here I am at my work(?) station. (That's me with the baby.) This is my vantage point for the monthly poetry challenge I am writing at the moment. The idea is to show how the seasons change and our response to them. I guess I will have to rely on memory for July as I am off to the big smoke for some time.
I will imagine my husband fighting with the bougainvillia while I am away. I hate to think what he will do with it while I am not there. Generally I have to chain myself to the trunk to protect it. ;-) That can be pretty rough as these plants have huge thorns. This one is so beautiful, but very messy and keeps us busy sweeping up the fallen leaves and flowers.
I have been having trouble with the garden lately. The following poem explains it all. It is my June response to the challenge.

June Gloom.

My garden's not so peaceful now
our neighbour's done a bunk.
Her hens free range in my yard,
spread sticky fleas and junk.

They scatter my neat laid compost,
cause me strife and ire.
If I only had a sling-shot -
was quick enough to fire.

Our open doors invite them
their feet clack on my floor,
they gobble up our pets' food
then cackle loud for more.

I know free range is healthy -
keep them if she must -
I didn't know they'd scale the fence
and turn my yard to dust.

So you see there sometimes is a crack in the walls of Paradise.

In the next month, while I am in Townsville, we are expecting our son home after 15 years of living in Canada. You can imagine how excited I feel. He hasn't seen our home so he will get something of an education. Below is something I wrote some time ago. The sweet smell of cow dung is wafting through the rooms again now.

Autumn Muster. Frances Mackay

The autumn muster begins
with the April moon.
Horses first alert us,
neighing and kicking in their trailers,
travelling from station to station.
Townships empty as ringers
move out to work the cattle.

Busy traffic gathers labour -
early risers stoked on coffee
and excitement of the chase.
Through dust and scrub
horse and rider rout elusive cleanskins.

A helicopter, technology's answer
to rough terrain, dominates the air,
buffeting the ground with
turbulence, noise and more dust.

Cooler night air carries mournful
cries of separated calves and cows.
Lowing continues for days,
persistent reminders of bush loneliness.

Giant transports, highway's kings,
haul cattle to sale yards
or ships bound for far countries,
dwarfing distances effortlessly.

Ringers return, towns revitalise,
road trains yield to tourist caravans,
horses dream in home paddocks
until, again, the rally to muster comes.