He waddled through the bracken
Cracking twigs beneath his claws,
His serpentining tail with rings of gold
Obediently followed
Drawing esses in the dust.
A dinosaur ten thousand years old.
Two metres long he measured,
His tongue flicked two span more.
His glassy eye had settled on some prey.
Then cautiously he circled
Round the body of a bird.
This carrion would feed him well today.
He nosed among the maggots
Wrenching putrid flesh away,
And, head held high, he swallowed, with a grin.
A quick examination,
Of surrounding bush and sky,
Then, feeling safe, he shoved his nose back in.
When full to overflowing,
Leaving bracken all pristine,
He clawed his way to safety in the trees.
Then climbed a black trunked wattle,
Camoflauged by speckled shade,
And rested and digested in the breeze.
Jonathan Quinn
Lived a life without sin.
Spending fifty nine years doing good.
His last was a riot.
Now he lies here quite quiet,
Like every dead Irishman should.
Known as Bill “Smiley”,
This gruff William Kiley,
Built Spring Station homestead by hand.
This toil brought him pleasure,
No end was its measure,
Now he’s here underneath clay and sand.
If you wander too close to a plover
She’ll whistle and run away quick
Taking you from her nest
‘Cos she thinks you’re a pest
Who has come to do harm to her chick.
If you don’t follow soon she’ll get airborn,
Then you’re in for a terrible time.
For she’ll swoop at your face
Till you find a new place
To go walking. And there ends my rhyme.
When you wander up behind me while I’m feeding on the beach,
I feel the need to fly away, to stay just out of reach.
I know I’m lacking courage, I’m a timid kind of bird.
In fact I’m just a chicken, to a point that’s quite absurd.
I’ve learnt to take off quickly when you’re thirty steps away.
And fly out over water while avoiding ocean spray,
Then swing around behind you till I find a patch of sand
Thirty paces back behind you, clear of weed, where I can land.
The life I lead is crazy but it’s simple and it’s fun.
I eat, I sleep, and fly around beach hikers, every one.
But when it comes to fishing I’m a clever little crane.
No hook, no line, no sinker 'cos I've got a fishing brain.
I walked along a footpath near a honeysuckle vine
And thought I heard a hint of happy song.
I reckoned it was Elvis. He’s a favourite of mine
So I joined in with a smile while walking on.
We were half way through a chorus with our voices loud and free
When I heard the other singer make a blue.
He flew in crazy circles. Yes, you’re right he was a bee,
But a bee that sings like Elvis. What a coup!
He’d finished “Love Bee Tender” without any kind of thought
For the proper words the writer put in place.
So I found a jar with lid on and when the bee was caught
I put him in to keep him safe, in case.
Then sure enough my chance to make a fortune came along,
When my bee competed bravely on the telly.
On a show called “You’ve Got Talent” he sang an Elvis song
Yes, his “Don’t Bee Cruel” turned judges hearts to jelly.
Now he’s a National Idol, winning fame and fortune fast.
I manage all his gigs and always smile
When I smell the honeysuckle as I‘m walking slowly past.
Promoting bees that sing like Elvis, that's my style.
When you’re stressed about the weather and you don’t know what to wear,
Just cast your eyes up high amongst the trees.
You’ll see us chewing nurckles, on our own or in a pair,
And skwarking when the pollen makes us sneeze.
If our appetite is endless and we skip from twig to twig
Chewing everything in sight that shows a flower,
You can bet the sun will shine aloft to brighten up our gig
So T shirts, shorts and sandals win the hour.
If we climb about impatient for the next one, you can know
That there’s something in the air to make us wonder
How much time we’ve got to chew away on nurkles or to go
Home to our nests, safe from the rain and thunder.
When we fly in any numbers you should heed our message clear
Stay at home, sit by the fire keeping warm
Wear winter woolies, scarf and gloves, put muffs on every ear
Be smart, stay dry like us, wait out the storm.
Beware! The humble butterfly, so fragile yet so fast
Is honing new capacities this spring.
From Donald Rumsfeld’s notebook lessons issue from the past
Promoting insect power on the wing.
Now those who construct missiles, laser guided and the rest
Had a double barrelled product to devise.
To clone Danaus plexippus, called the Monarch, their first test,
Then launching drone survellance in our skies.
Young Donald saw his chance to make a fortune with this gig.
He’d been a GM student as a boy.
As a teenaged sat-nav techno no job ever seemed too big.
So inspired he designed his viscious toy
Working nights beside a candle with its smokey yellow flame,
He jotted notes while cauldrons simmered low,
His sepia concoction from a recipe of shame
Would host both changes needed in one blow.
A master race of insects with the power to seek out crime
On the street, or in a perpetrator’s mind,
And relay information down to hard drives any time
Was the outcome of his dark and grisley grind.
It worked and in one session Mrs Rumsfeld’s clever tot
Set to marketing his butterflies world wide.
In London they spot speeding, reckless drivers and that lot
From high up where all felons can be spied.
Now if you don’t believe me Google "ASTRAEA" and read
How Simon Jewel has got his UAVs
To single out each culprit with an entrenched love of speed
And butterfly them, quick as shelling peas.
In Houston too the Rumsfeld bugs have caught on in a rush.
As officers advance with guns ablaze
The butterflies zap perps before the cops have time to blush.
It’s a deadly cartoon mad-cap kind of craze.
Beware indeed, the butterfly has new and awesome roles.
They’re small but have a most effective sting.
They never shirk instructions, in fact they’d walk on coals.
And Rumsfeld is the power behind the thing.
I knew young Charlie Nimmo, he could wield a mighty stroke,
He was never one to whimper in a frey.
He bowled more quick and curly than any other bloke
While honoring the essence of fair play.
Country cricket was his forte. On the weekends he would play
For Tumut - Mighty Tigers - Best of All.
On weekdays he would train a lot and, waiting for the day
He'd just oil up his bat or shine the ball.
He could slip a schooner downward just as quick as any bloke,
And shout the bar so long as he could pay.
He’d celebrate successes with his team mates, mountain folk,
And thank his opposition for the day.
No better mannered giant on the cricket field. No sport
Deserved the kind of fate that Charlie copped.
While running to the boundary for a ball he should have caught
His eye beheld a maiden and he stopped.
The Batlow Bugle headline and the Tumut Times report
Proclaimed a tragic loss for country cricket.
With eyes upon the maiden Charlie’s life was cut quite short.
When he tripped and landed, skewered on a picket.
In December nearing Christmas season eighteen eighty-five
The Tumut Tiger players gathered round
In memory of the day that Charlie Nimmo took a dive
And ended his short innings under ground.