Boxthorn Shelter by Myra Morris

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Gone is the red
From all the boxthorn bushes --
Gone are the lacquered globes that Autumn spread --
But fantails, now, and smooth, grey-feathered thrushes  
Burden the boughs.
And take the eye instead! ....
Hear how the honeyeaters hush their singing
Under the pale, green leaves --
Hanging head-down, their claws like tendril clinging
To rain-dark stems, their bills   
Drawing the sweetness that each mauve-white flower
Deep in its tiny cup distils! ....   
Polished each pointing thorn,
Bright-hung with glassy drops that shake like wind-loosed bells, 
Seeming to make
The crystal song that falls
From the blue-painted wrens who seek
Shelter within the boxthorn's spiney walls.   

Only the plover,
The loud, fierce plover, 
Flying aloof,
Seeks for himself no cover  
Beneath the green thorn-raftered roof,   
But wings across the wide and empty plain,     
Screaming an imprecation to the rain!

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 25 June 1938

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 25, 2014 7:23 AM.

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