Paul Williamson: Two Poems

Beneath the Mountain Ash

The winding track is lightly muddy

this soggy Belgrave spring. Scrub

to the side is dense and unyielding.

Eucalypts rear their shaggy, honey trunks

to stretch above and straggle. A crimson

rosella darts nervously from a hollow;

there is almost no birdsong

now the nests are charged with eggs.

On the dam below, pacific black and wood ducks

cruise with moorhens beneath a shore

lined by giant columns of mountain ash

that rear like images from past millennia.

Along the valley floor a muddy creek

snakes past snags and undercut banks.

On its sides yellow flowers stare from groundcover

at the two hundred metre line of pale, pure lilies

that stutter to the dam then scatter behind the bulrushes

as if dabs of a colonial sense of beauty.

Paul Williamson

Woolshed Wedding

The muted silver corrugated iron shed is ample;

its window rims painted burnt burgundy.

Inside, the spine for the shearers’ combs waits

below rafters decked with strings of small white lights.

Structural columns are tree trunks, split or trimmed;

the wooden walls are hung with rusted farming tools

horse regalia, stencils for absent wool bales

newspaper cuttings from two centuries past.

Outside the back wall are weathered grey mustering pens;

nearby, sheep and cattle sparsely graze the fields to the dam

lined with trees and home for ducks and coot.

Mother waits at the shed, while in Braidwood town, the bride

and father pass the butchers shop that bears their surname.

A clydesdale drafthorse cross nobly draws their shiny

black open carriage with polished lamps and gold trim;

steered with leather harnesses through silver rings.

Buildings the party passes are traditional and well maintained sandstone or old brick. Clusters have been rendered

and painted subtle colours. Shop fronts dot the main highway

from coast to city and glean the passing trade.

Slowly the horse trots along side roads past paddocks

lush from recent rain, towards the congregation

that stands in an arena rimmed by granite boulders and

giant rusted machines that had plowed and planted, harvested

and bailed hay. On lawn rough from former farming

the unselfconscious crowd waits, young and old, family and friends wearing cheerful clothes in diverse styles.

Toddlers cling to parents, one mother lingers

metres away from her newborn held by her husband.

The celebrant stands before a long rusted bench

of former farm machine decked with rustic flowers

that sprout from preserving jars. Ambient pipes of Pan

play to bless the old and new fertility.

Paul Williamson