The Sound of Gold
Posted: Tue Feb 14, 2012 5:36 pm
Hi everyone, I haven't been here for a while, so please forgive me and enjoy this bush dance. 
Inspired by Terry Piggott, and his awesome life in the bush as he gathers inspiration for his equally brilliant poetry.
Thank you Terry,
THE PROSPECTOR:
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The story is told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilisation.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
With limbs stiff and cold as the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his pot and his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Worddancer
Inspired by Terry Piggott, and his awesome life in the bush as he gathers inspiration for his equally brilliant poetry.
Thank you Terry,
THE PROSPECTOR:
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The story is told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilisation.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
With limbs stiff and cold as the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his pot and his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Worddancer
this line cracked me up