Mathews Hill Memories........Free Octaves
Sounds come up from the valley
Voices - the sound of the stream
Carrying away the debris
That was the storm that cost so much
I hear the harsh sounds of the galahs
Boasting about the fruit they have stolen
Laughing at the humans who are left
With half eaten apples and other fruit.
Slowly sleep enfolds me in her warmth
The night sinks into oblivion and silence.
Free from the prison of self I dream
And as the night becomes early morning
I drift outside into a dew covered world.
My spirit ascends into the ether
As I listen to an anthem of birdsongs
And see the sparkles of wet sunlight.
I see the fingers of trees reaching upwards
Trying to secure every single ray of sun,
And the resultant sight of suns fingers
Exploring the trees and the green leaves
Tremble in orgasmic ecstasy of her touch.
The sound of the stream is lesser now
As there is no more storm water to feed it
All too soon the sound will be a memory.