Along the Creek by Duncan Fraser

Sun shining down from a pale blue autumn sky,
white wisps of cloud move slowly in the breeze,
grass dry and bleached by drought and summer heat.

The tree-lined creek is nearly dry,
green puddles punctuate its muddy bed,
no rain in sight, they’ll soon be gone.

Small birds are hard to find,
a rufous whistler, three grey fans, a wren,
brown thornbill busy in the leaves.

Then through the trees above the paddock,
a harrier with upswept wings sails low
and then is gone, too soon to name.

A common brown the only butterfly to see,
no dragonflies or damsels catch the eye,
their season’s drawing to a close.

Wait, movement on a trunk across the creek,
a common shutwing perches for a time,
the dragonfly of autumn has emerged.

The big zoom lens is meant for birds,
but hold it steady, focus, shoot,
the shutwing flies, its image though remains.




Duncan Fraser, Australia

Looking back by Duncan Fraser

creek of my boyhood,
through carefree days we roamed its banks,
we swam, we fished,
and took it all for granted,
but it is just a shadow now
of what it used to be,
life-giving floods are all too rare,
yet still it flows.

now, when I cross the little bridge
that spans the sheltered reach
before it meets the river,
I gaze upstream through older eyes
made wiser by the years,
to see the dappled sunshine light
the beauty that I failed to heed
when I was just a boy.

Duncan Fraser, Australia

Reflections by Duncan Fraser

Driving down to Bellbird Corner,
whippet tense with anticipation on the seat beside me,
sun shining down from a nearly cloudless sky,
yet it’s winter next week.

The dew’s still on the grass
but the earth is dry without the fickle rain,
it’s different now to when I was a boy on Bellbird Farm,
the weather’s changed.

Along the wombat track
the sound of spinebills’ beating wings is all around us,
the mistletoe’s in flower on dying blackwoods,
sweet nectar for the birds.

We’ve reached the river bend,
where riding in to school so many years ago
we heard bell tones, and looked to find the songsters in the trees,
they’re not there now.

Newry Creek is barely running,
a gentle trickle through the roots and logs,
clear tannic water green azolla frosted, soon to meet
the river’s muddy welcome.

A faint call lifts my head,
my first known raptor, a Whistling Kite,
head down, weaving lazy circles in the blue,
we called them eagles then.

Open the gate to let Jock through,
he doesn’t like the tight-strung wires,
the Golden Wattles by the fence are budding up already,
yet it’s winter next week.

To home now through the dips
once spanned by white-railed timber bridges,
it must be twenty years since they last saw a flood,
the weather’s changed.

Pause for a quiet look out north,
old Ben, rising blue on the far horizon,
whippet still hunting, like Toby sixty years ago,
some things never change.

Duncan Fraser, Australia