Shifting Camp

Glint of gumtrees in the dawn,

so million coloured: bush wind-borne

magpie-music, rising, falling;

and voices of the stockmen calling.



Bellowing of cattle: stamping,

impatient of the place of camping:

bark of dogs, and the crack-crack-crack

of stockwhips as we take the track.


Neighing of night-rested mounts...

This is a day that really counts:

a day to ride with a hundred head,

and a roll of canvas – that's my bed.