Apart from my first six years of life, and another four when I landed my first job out of school and had to temporarily move to the city I have lived in the country or in small rural towns. Country life is much more relaxed then living in the city and time seems to move slower. The people are friendly and many get to know you by name. I hope these two poems go some way to describing that.
A Place Just a Little Way Down
The bush surrounds my little town, to the east and west that’s for sure.
To the north and south, to the river mouth, and all the way down to the shore.
From the birds in the trees to the rock wallabies and bush tucker food you can eat.
I love the outback, every rough beaten track, even during the hot summer heat.
And as I repose, cooling under a hose, at my house in the centre of town
I reminisce of a day ‘neath a blue gum a-sway in a place just a little way down.
Where the wattle trees bold with their bright sprays of gold attract the honey-eater and pigeon,
Or the ridge with the caves, where the dingoes oft’ laze on the property I called ‘The Haven.’
Somewhere Between Here and There
I’ve lived in small towns for most of my life,
The city just cannot compete.
The hustle and bustle just holds no appeal,
When relaxed and serene I’m at peace.
There is one small town that I visit each month,
It’s nestled amidst trees of green.
I sit in the park observing the birds,
So beautifully tranquil the scene.
Amenities are few, but people are too,
At least they provide basic needs.
Who needs traffic jams, and city nightlife,
Or fast food and take-out for feeds?
I can write if I want or catch up on a book,
Or just recline back for a snooze.
There’s never a rush or a deadline to make
So I really have nothing to lose.
My little dog Ginger just goes with the flow,
No protest or complaint does she make.
She goes for a run or soaks up some sun,
Our friendship is all give, no take.
Proston is the name of the town that I speak,
On most maps it may not appear.
It’s not on a highway or even a bi-way,
And is somewhere between here and there.
John Hansen © 2019
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