Poems and paintings by Sian Butler (my Mum). You are welcome to enjoy and share these poems, but they are copyrighted and not for commercial use without the poet’s permission. If you would like to publish any of these in a book, magazine, or similar, please contact me at daveclode@hotmail.com, and I will contact Sian.
In my opinion, Sian’s poems compare with my favourite Australian poets, Dorothea Mackellar and “Banjo” Paterson. You can see more of her poems at “Australian Bush Poetry1”, and more of her paintings by visiting the pages “Australian Outback Paintings 1” and 2, as well as homesteads, elephant paintings etc., all at: Tracts4free.WordPress.com. https://tracts4free.wordpress.com/
Sian is a “grey nomad” and has travelled extensively all around and throughout Australia.
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Sacred Memories
The local mine has close down
Miners and families have moved from town
Small farms have failed to thrive
or in times of drought survive
Most people have left
and the town is bereft
In the church attendance numbers fall
until there are simply none at all
But this is still Holy Ground
where memories abound
In this Sacred Place
far from the city’s rat race
For this church it is too late
it has finally bowed to fate
and closed its windows and door
yet it still holds reflections of yore
The echoes of sermons long past
these blessings forever will last
In the shadows and shafts of light
remain stories of wrong and of right
There were celebrations here
by folk who held life dear
They brought their troubles and also their joys
like the baptisms of baby girls and boys
after marriages made in love
and blessed by Heaven above
Deaths came too
as they always do
but one wonders why
a small child had to die
or a mother giving birth
then her body returned to the earth
with the infant left for another to rear
bravely trying to not shed a tear
Young soldiers in their prime
died long before their time
Some lives were long
as their bodies were strong
They lived till old age
and the life of a sage
There were rituals for humanity
that helped to save one’s sanity
On Good Friday people came to mourn
On Easter Sunday to be reborn
The Christmas Service was a joy
for every man, woman, girl and boy
with well-loved carols of choice
to which they could all give voice
One needs to have Faith in an overall plan
that God has designed for each child, woman and man
This building will for years still stand
now dilapidated; nothing grand
But the people who worshipped here
although no longer near
in their hearts will still hold
these memories of old.
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The Dry Riverbed
The banks are bordered by trees
with leaves fluttering in the breeze
Their trunks so strong
and their branches long
some twisted and turned;
some horribly burned
in a terrible fire
where the outcome was dire.
Their roots plunge down deep
for water they must seek.
Those that grow near the river will thrive
but further away it is hard to survive.
Some puddles remain after the rain
and the river will fill one day again.
Now, instead of cool water, just dry sand and mud.
A river gum drops a branch with a thud
as a way of shedding its heavy load.
With luck it may land on a horrid cane toad.
The sunshine is strong
and the shadows are long.
Pebbles and rocks
and occasional flocks
of budgies so green
a delight to be seen.
Animals come from the banks to play.
As the water dries up they will not stay.
Birds fly down to drink their fill
splash and bathe in the puddles until
the riverbed cracks into curled up squares
of contracting mud that rips and tears
all life out of the earth.
All that is left is a dearth
of nourishment for life
Just drought and waste and strife
The water has flowed on its way to the Centre
Its primary goal being Lake Eyre to enter.
Part of a great inland sea
that long ago used to be
but now the lake comes and goes according to the weather
as the seasons and systems they all come together.
After the next flood that surges this way
the dry riverbed will see a new day.
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The Old Farm Shed
This old farm shed that looks so forlorn
was out of necessity born.
It stands under stately cherry trees
home to birds, possums and bees.
It has stored the hay
harvested by May.
Tools hung from hooks
over food for the chooks.
There were baskets for eggs
and bikes without treads.
Old wagon wheels from the owner before
left abandoned beside the door.
Several drums of kerosene
against each other they did lean.
Also, plenty of mice
caught by cats in a trice.
The shed is missing some poles
and the roof has several holes.
Its walls are falling apart
shedding planks for a start
with the patina of age
changing at every stage
To an artist it still has charm
Once part of a working farm
this shed may not stand for long
It is no longer strong
About to fall into the clover
Its days are nearly over
For this artist it’s such a boon
I really must paint it soon.
This poem will be its tutorial
My painting will be its memorial.
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Thank you Sian for kindly sharing your beautiful poetry and paintings.
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