Visitation.

            For Diana.

In the early dawn I felt a touch,

Heard a soft voice whisper “Come”;

A pause and then that voice again:

“Your race you have now run”.

I shook my head, withdrew my hand,

I weakly whispered no.

How can I leave this woman

Sitting quietly by the window?

O Mr Death I cannot come!

Gaze upon this sweet vignette:

Morning’s growing light is

Softly framing her silhouette.

She and I have things to do,

Loving not yet completed,

So now I hear my own voice vow

“I will not by you be defeated.”

When you some other time return

I must indeed merely follow

And so doing say goodbye to this

Quintessence of joy and sorrow.

But now I feel the warmth of her touch

Make your cold grip fall away,

And weakly turning towards the light

I embrace once more the coming day.

Fraser Island

When I visited Fraser Island Miranda's island from "The Tempest" came to mind. That island was full of magical sounds and I heard that magic on Fraser.

Miranda heard magical music

In percussion crash of wave,

Heard it tinkle in treetop

And echo from distant cave.

Now those same sounds I hear

On this realm of purest sand,

Without pebble, rock, clay or loam,

This beautiful Fraser Island.

It softly and sweetly sings

From serpentine streams so clear

That the mind is forced to question

“Is this water or is this air?”

It murmurs in the mangroves,

The blue of upland lake,

In banksia grove and pandanas plant,

In the forests of coastal she-oak.

It crescendos in the rainforest’s

Green palms that densely entwine,

Its soaring white towers of blackbutt,

Its spotted beauty of Kauri pine.

It sounds from eastern waves

That daily wash from their sand

The countless tracks of the 4 wheel drives

That scurry upon the land.

And even though on the morrow

That traffic will again resume,

Closely following the tide will sing

Its lyrical, relentless cleansing tune.

O gently, gently each day

The attendant tide comes in

And with song of ease and grace

Makes everything pristine again.

Then the magic that Miranda heard

Ripples or crashes in the sea,

Or in the high, bright notes of the treetops
Makes songs of exquisite beauty.