Paul Williamson: Two Poems

Seasonal Rush

Spring deceives and chases;

the swooping magpie, a male

stark black and white, furiously

speeds the ducking cyclist

from near the five-tree hill.

Kookaburras laugh but they are serious.

The pair high on the wire warns in chorus

another heading across their claimed ground.

One breaks, flying straight and hard

to make sure the intruder leaves.

The red wattle bird rasps a ritual warning

then harries a crow away from the grevilleas;

forgetting size, spurred by fury.

The hen is hidden in the crush of leaf and flower.

I am still not sure of all that the anger protects.

Paul Williamson

People of the Hill

We walk steadily, without ceremony

towards the sky-crowned crest

while joggers crunch past with smiles behind their eyes

and trail bike riders strain upwards, to trundle

speedily down. All are part of the loose tribe

from hobby groups, offices and homes

that haunts the winding tracks of our hill.

Some come for calm in the cooling breeze

for fitness promised by gritty trails;

to spot native animals, plants and birds

even marking new sightings in notebooks.

Others dig to reverse the spread of weeds

grubbing out feral scrub to bring back native plants;

working with nature to hold our hill.

Paul Williamson