Thump of feet on faint dirt track
Set off by sound of whip-bird's crack—
A cry that makes me feel as though
With dark descending, sun so low
I am not welcome: I must go.

The gloom is weird and hangs like mist
Around me as I duck and twist
Past twining vines that wend their way
Up trunks of trees to glimpse the day

Yet day is gone, is going fast
But soon, I think, I'll reach at last
The grey tin shed we call our home
Whilst Father builds us one of stone.

Mother's calling, louder now
I know I'm close, and yet that sound
Of fading light—the whip-bird's crack;
The thump of feet along the track
As I thrust out of the gum*
Hurried on by weary sun
And break from green—rings in my ear
There is the shed; I'm in the clear.

*As in, gum tree.

Note: not autobiographical! Although, my dad owner-built our house and there was a ramshackle tin shed on the bushy property that he considered quite livable ... my mum would not hear of it, considering she was pregnant at the time!

I imagine this to be set before my time, anyway ...

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