Henry Mackenzie Green(2 May 1881 - 9 September 1962 / Sydney)
- by Henry Mackenzie Green75
The Locust drones along the drowsy noon, The brown bee lingers in the yellow foam, Blossom on blossom searching deep, but soon Slides heavy-wingèd home.
The vacant air, half visible, complains All overburdened of its noontide hour; Sound after sound in heavy silence wanes At the strong sun's burning power.
Let the strong sun burn down the barren plain And scour the empty heaven, and twist the air To filmiest flickerings, o'er us in vain His hollow vault doth glare.
For us gnarled boughs and massive boles o'ershade, And tall bulrushes guard us with green spears From the grim noon; our dewy jewelled glade Never a footstep nears.
Come feast with us; behold our fragrant store Of candied locusts, that no longer drone Through summer eves, but transmigrated, pour Thin goblin monotone
Through eucalyptine stillness as we rouse Our gnomy anthem to the answering trees, While gold-eyed toad-guards of our hidden house Croak full-fed choruses.
Come visit us; O follow till you find In some green shade our secret banquetings, Where brolgas dance, and, some great stem behind, A hidden lyrebird sings.
Ask of the eaglehawk in the blue air, Ask of the chattering parrot, he should tell; Fat possum in the tree bole, furry bear, Us beast and bird know well.
The silver lizard on the sun-baked stone, The green-flecked tree-snake in his circle coiled, Dreaming of evil, man, and man alone Missed us, howe'er he toiled.
Come feast thou with us; ancient kings of all, We are the mystery at the heart of noon, Weird unseen chucklers when long shadows fall From the misleading moon.
We are the spirits of distorted trees; We beckon down dim gullies, far astray, Till lost, deep lost, the wild-eyed traveller sees Dark at the heart of day.
And oh, we laughed about his last choked groans Beside the water that he sought so long, And oh, we danced about his clean-picked bones To a gnomy undersong.
For all the day we chuckle and provoke With mocking shapes and noises each bright hour, But when dark even from his grave hath broke Then are we lords of power.
- by Henry Mackenzie Green34
As I came over Cunningham's Gap a skin of time peeled off the map The fern's green ocean overflowed the hard black surface of the road and lapped the wheel rims of the dray and the sweating bullocks where they lay, and washed the car out of today. A cloud of cockatoos, snow on the hill shrieked out of distance and were still. Cedar, sassafras, bunya pine, stinging nettle and lawyer-vine baffled my passage and blocked my sight as I swarmed the hummocks and climbed the height. But long months' labour through wood and waste dropped from my bones as I gazed at last. round to round, to the rim of the sun, on a world of richness not yet won; broad fat pastures and rolling downs, Wheat fields and Orchards, farms and towns, ghosts of the future surged at the gate of time and being and would not wait. As I shouted in triumph, the Darling Downs leapt into life with farms and towns; Wheat field and orchards, flocks and herds, grass to the bellies, woke at my words. the cloud of cockatoos, snow on the hill, shrieked out of distance and were still, and the skin of time crept over the map as I started my car in Cunningham's Gap.
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