THE trees are gold in the dying sun, The greens grow brown and dark; I know where little wind-gusts run By the sway of hanging bark. Brown, huddled boulders closer press, Only the mopoke calls By their cold, mossy loneliness: The gloaming's on the falls. The reservoir, 'mid solemn hills Broods like an exiled sea Drowning a hundred singing rills In dark tranquility. Faint echoes sound of flashing spray And noon's incessant drone; An unrecoverable day Has gone and I'm alone. |