Alpaca’s On Watch
Al Paca’s family is keen to observe
Farmer Pat’s cat, sitting undisturbed.
A quiet pussycat – without the hissing fit
Doesn’t spook alpacas – sometimes they spit.
She sits on the fence with feline finesse
Unblinking, purring, her name is Tess.
Tess watches too, so nothing’s amiss
On farmer Pat’s farm it is heavenly bliss.
Al Paca hums to keep his family calm
They respond in kind; Tess means no harm.
She sits like a queen, a creature of love
Never blinking an eye, heavens above.
Al Paca is tallest of these lookalike Llamas
He’s the father near the left in lighter pyjamas.
The fur is worth more than a culled herd for meat
Alpacas are lucrative – for fibre hard to beat.
Unlike Llamas which are larger working beasts
They’re not eaten like venison – dearest of feasts.
Alpacas weigh the same as a tasty deer
Yet Alpacas are rarely eaten, have no fear.
Ginger Cats
Ginger cats are different,
From any other cat,
They’re fearless, stand their ground,
And that is just a fact.
Be they short or long haired,
Doesn’t make a difference,
When they feel threatened,
They come to their defence,
Staying very calm,
They don’t run away,
But remain motionless,
Challenging the threat that way.
‘Billy Joe’, my Retriever,
Doesn’t like any cat,
When he sees one anywhere,
He’s only focused on that.
And if it is a ‘ginger’,
I tell him not to toy,
For the ‘ginger’ would eat him alive.
And he’d be a sorry boy.”
Burnt
We’ve seen what a vengeful old planet can do
when it chooses to mount an attack.
The sky is no longer a pure sheet of blue
but a vile, toxic blanket of black.
These raging infernos have beggared belief
as they’ve flaunted their merciless force
and all round the world we’re united in grief
over trauma they’ve wrought in their course.
We mourn for the people who’ve already died
for the lives ripped apart at the seams,
for all the communities sadly denied
any chance of fulfilling their dreams.
The loss of our livestock and wildlife as well
has created a harrowing void
and as for the creatures surviving this hell,
their homes in the bush are destroyed.
It’s ever so hard to express the despair
that engulfs us right down to the core.
But we Aussies are tough and, as one, we’ll prepare
for whatever may next lie in store.
AN AUSSIE BUSH SUMMER
Golden dust veils the scalding sunset,
And eucalyptus leaves droop weary.
Heat strangles each breeze at birth,
And all the bush is quiet and eerie.
A lonely road wanders lost between
the fences; some cattle, black and still.
Lost interest in the grass —
And waiting for that dry creek to fill.
Nightfall claims the leavings of the day,
And branches reach out long and shady.
The country’s parched and breathless,
Till once more, spring steps like a lady.
Red Admiral
In mid-January a Red Admiral butterfly
flew in front of the Lygon Street bus,
past crowds of summer shoppers
and the searing sun.
Dust was rising, mixed with smoke.
I wondered what would happen to the butterfly
as it flapped and flapped around curves of air.
Butterflies are not confident
in the way a bus is confident,
and Lygon Street was no place for a Red Admiral –
all that summer traffic and not a stinging nettle in sight.
Australian Children’s Poetry 