This Place

Alone together for a thousand acres,

free finally, from inhibition,

to surge up hills, gallop across pasture,

share blackberries, overlooking golden

grass, and indigo hills,

soaked from summer drizzle.

Return to the warmth of dry rugs,

warm mash, and fresh clothes.

***

Where the cold burns my face

in windswept paddocks,

bare branches of stripped tree,

black against the grey sky.

The air cold, but you are warm,

in my embrace, breathing in,

your scent of earth, and sweat,

and furry coat that tickles.

***

The piles of red fur, you shed,

with the coming of blossom trees,

sweet in the air, the sound of bees

above us, as we speak

our silent language of trust,

and anticipate the first musters.

Dust, and flies, and milky tea

at smoko, good cake, better company.

***

Adventures in cool evenings,

shadows long across the stubble,

of forage crops, as we explore the

farthest reaches, of shadowed

hills and flats, creeks and willow shrouded,

dams, where small birds, willy-wagtail,

and flitting blue faced wrens

reside in the still, breathing, living world.

***

The early morning wanderings,

when the mist has not yet lifted,

adrift, and the faint blue

of a bright day, teases from above.

Where we trot across the dew,

and inhale the laden air.

The simple knowing that I want

nowhere but this place with you.