The source

of sauce,

of course,

depends upon

the sort

of sauce.

But no matter

what sort of

source

that sort of sauce

is sourced from,

do not

serve it

in a saucer.

The trees are stark and bare in winter,

Mist curls around their feet.

The brooks are running fast and pooling deeply

Where the waters meet.

The sleepy twilight sends the day to flight,

And the bush slides into night.

Winter’s chill seeps down into the gorges,

And all is lost to sight.

Mountains smudge the distance

In the cold grey light.

But soon enough the bush will wake to spring,

And the bellbirds’ chimes will ring.

Where are you going,

over those stones,

past those old cliffs,

the colour of bones.

Through ancient forests

you tumble and twist,

until at long last

you are lost in the mist.

(Photo by Ginette Aitchison)

This is my chair,

keep away!

It’s very nice,

so here I’ll stay.

It matches me,

a perfect tone,

so leave me be,

up here alone!