Whispers

Can you hear the kookaburra’s call?
And the stone-curlew’s blood-curdling bawl?
Can you feel the silent stare of the tawny frogmouth?
And the cool rain piercing through the drought?

You might only see the faded sky,
The naked trees of late July,
Perhaps the half-filled waterhole
Or the little hills and grassy knolls

But I only see my childhood home
Still built from honey-coloured stone
Surrounded by a blanket of faded green
Quite the picture-perfect scene

The memories are almost too much to bear
Whispers of a past life still floating on the air…