Bora born
Last of the story tellers _
Copper as a cooked crab in the morning
light, the tell tale wearer's idle talk slides.
This warrior must feel the pulse of minds
as his hands glow from rhythmed breath refined.
Relaxed on the Z trak, a smoke rolled in
his lips, the voice is measured, softly crisp.
Bill's yarns' low branches shed leaves in the wind
like thought trails in the ethers about him.
To dance with the sounds of those magnificent
pines, set high in the backdrop locusts find.
Sentinels of peace they define this place
in a rhythm soaked breeze, breathed in with grace.
His tale continues with spells here then
there, with a peek through locked windows, time shared.
Another smoke, then leak out the back
the yarn spirals on memory in tack.
The morning tea story gathers new ground
time tasters delight, lost hours re-zoned.
Copper gold light armour clad with grace, the
warrior fleshed out as peace fills his space.
- O -
My neighbour Bill was a career soldier and organic farmer. He is a father, Vietnam Vet.,
psychic, and my next door neighbour. Amonst other virtues he is a throughly decent bloke
still dealing with his war demons like so many others stained from that dirty water. Most mornings Bill drops over for a morning tea and a good yarn.
© Oct 2007_ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Last of the story tellers _
Last of the story tellers _
