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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427786" 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 <br>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">During 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; <br>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 wouoldn'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, <br>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=427786" 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-sil..."></div>
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