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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427785" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>South Of My Days</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,<br>rises that tableland, high delicate outline<br>of bony slopes wincing under the winter,<br>low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-<br>clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silenced,<br>willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple<br>branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;<br>and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O cold the black-frost night. The walls draw in to the warmth<br>and the old roof cracks its joints; the slung kettle<br>hisses a leak on the fire. Hardly to be believed that summer will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler-roses,<br>thrust it's hot face in here to tell another yarn-<br>a story old Dan can spin into a blanket against the winter.<br>Seventy years of stories he clutches round his bones.<br>Seventy years are hived in him like old honey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Droving that year, Charleville to the Hunter,<br>nineteen-one it was, and the drought beginning;<br>sixty head left at the McIntyre, the mud round them<br>hardened like iron; and the yellow boy died<br>in the sulky ahead with the gear, but the horse went on,<br>stopped at Sandy Camp and waited in the evening.<br>It was the flies we seen first, swarming like bees.<br>Came to the Hunter, three hundred head of a thousand-<br>cruel to keep them alive - and the river was dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or mustering up in the Bogongs in the autumn<br>when the blizzards came early. Brought them down; we<br>brought them down, what aren't there yet. Or driving for Cobb's on the run<br>up from Tamworth-Thunderbolt at the top of Hungry Hill,<br>and I give him a wink. I wouldn't wait long, Fred,<br>not if I was you. The troopers are just behind,<br>coming for that job at the Hillgrove. He went like a luny, him on his big black horse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, they slide and they vanish<br>as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards.<br>True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof<br>cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash.<br>Wake, old man. This is winter, and the yarns are over.<br>No-one is listening<br>South of my days' circle<br>I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country<br>full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Judith+Wright">Judith Wright</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427785" data-title="South Of My Days de Judith Wright" data-description="South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of bony slopes wincing under the winter,
low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-
clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silence..."></div>
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