Poem: At the Typewriter by M. Forrest

Just outside my office window the dust lies on the leaves,
      And the great shadows sway and pass
      Dark splashes on the wind-swept grass,
And tall and slim a date palm flings its green crest to the eaves.

My fingers pick the black notes and clatter on the white;
      The purple ribbon slides along --
      Ting! goes the sharp voice of the gong.
Click! from the carriage handle jerking upwards on the right.

I rest my fingers on the keys and pause awhile, to dream
      Of polished leaves in forest dells,
      Of far-off clang of teamsters' bells.
Gold afternoons, and still lagoons where water lilies gleam;

Of a bird voice, clear and joyous, out beyond the timber line;
      Of sawdust drifting from the mill;
      Of grass trees climbing up the hill;
Of scent of almond from the scrub and resin from the pine.

But, there! I'm wasting time to-day; this typing must be done.
      'Twas just those shadows brought it back
      Like swinging vines across the track
In days when everything was hope, and everywhere was sun!

First published in The Bulletin, 20 September 1906

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on May 26, 2007 10:18 AM.

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