Reader Submissions

Oratorio at Bowen Creek

by

Fiona McIlroy

now I know what to do

when my heart is ruffled

torn or battered in a storm

now I know where to go

when my mind is baffled

by the pressure to perform

just walk a bit more slow

to where sound is muffled

soft carpet of starry lawn

from the log- look below

where strobe lights dapple

the granite rock form

all shades of green glow

from pomaderris to apple

from moss to tree fern

the thrill of each arpeggio

as thrush and gang-gang grapple

with tree creeper and scrub wren

the solo gong of oriole

against the rise and free fall

of speckled warbler or wattlebird

hours pass by in liquid flow

as shimmering pebbles ripple

bathing the eye in light and shade

on the way back to the cabin

you can be royally entertained

by the king of mimics-lyrebird 

the Marcel Marceau des oiseaux

dancer, romancer, ventriloquist

and studio artist superb

now I know where to go

to the source of all I seek

the birth of the Word, the babble

of Bowen Creek

the oratorio improvised each

dawn and dusk just for us-

surround -sound tones

from birds and singing stones