Ibis Summer
We had and ibis summer where the brown grass
was picked at disconsolately by the nodding, tottering birds,
where the trees stood stoically in the heat, little affected
in their drawing of water from deep in the earth
to store in their trunk, branches and uncountable leaves.
The shrubs weren’t so fortunate,
wilting under the deadpan heat against which
they could never steel themselves; some died.
We yearned, as I’m sure they all did,
for the Winter, the water, even the occasional cloud,
We yearned for the season when my Old Man
would say, “it’s great weather for ducks”,
and the gutters in Guildford would overflow,
and a trip from the car, parked at the footpath,
into the shops, would flood my Winter boots
that would take a week to dry properly.
The ibises disappeared, the Summer wilted
into Winter and the surviving shrubs brightened,
the grass became lush green and wet.
My Old Man visited on the weekend
and I couldn’t help quipping Said Hanrahan”
when he shook off his coat and grumbled
that “it’s great weather for ducks”.
http://www.cattlefacts.com.au/Poem%20Said%20Hanrahan.asp
