Softly sweeping they quietly whisper,
Over the clear fast flowing creek.
The willow trees whisper below the tall gums,
And the silence is broken by the call of a bird.

Back at the campsite the crackling fire,
With logs and twigs that once were trees.
Above it a billy of boiling water,
The same water that's been brought down a long winding creek.

When the ferrets will stay in the burrows,
And won't come out when they are called.
Sitting and waiting in hot or cold weather,
Still hopeful that soon a rabbit will run from a hole.

Sitting around the hot burning campfire,
Maybe just there having a laugh.
Listening and counting the faint sounds of shots,
Thinking of things to say if they come back with nothing.

Either over bridge or along highway,
Cars are heard with distinctive sounds.
Clattering planks or a whistle of wind,
It is known that a car is soon to be seen.

The campfire burns hot and brightly at night,
Warming themselves campers crowd round.
Like a wave the heat boldly hits campers,
People moving chairs because of smoke and heat.

In your sleeping bag inside your tent,
Thoughts of the day go through your head.
Thinking also of events of tomorrow,
As you softly drift off to sleep with the sounds of night.

Waking in mornings to the noise of birds,
Sound in the background is the creek
Getting up into the semi-lightened world,
Lighting the fire and having a breakfast of sorts.

A day out camping is worth ten at home,
And time doesn't matter at all.
From sunrise to sunset you have enough light,
At night the moonlight reflects in a fast flowing creek.

Lloyd McLean (1991-92)

This poem is part of the Horses and Things collection