Col was bitten by the Bush Poetry bug in 1995 while living in Charleville,
S.W.Q’ld. and has since recited in many towns, venues and competitions through the west, in
Nanango, the South Burnett, in Brisbane and in Sydney.
He published his book of his own poems in 1998.
MORNING IN THE
The gold of the sunrise far down in the valley,
The mists of the morning, webs shining with dew,
The forests and ranges that tower above us,
Our home in the mountains as day dawns anew.
Softly, so softly the cool breeze caresses
The grasses and leaves as it climbs from the sea,
And from up in a treetop a whipbird expresses
Its joy to be living, its need to be free.
With timing so perfect the other birds join it,
A chorus of songbirds to welcome the day,
The creatures of night time so stealthy and silent
Scurry for cover as night becomes day.
On the distant horizon the great red orb splurges
A full pallrtte of colour on the clouds of the sky,
And ever so quickly as full day emerges
With the mists of the morning they disappear and die.
I sit and I watch in incredulous wonder,
A new page unblemished God has given to me,
From out of the morning I’ve watched a day dawning,
In hope and with faith I await what will be.
©Col Bentley (Sept.1995).
My favourite place when I was young was on my father’s knee
To listen to the tales he told of how things used to be,
He told of men like Burke and Wills and Sturt and Eyre and more,
And epic treks through unknown wastes no white had seen before.
He told of mighty cattle drives across unknown lands,
He told of men and women too, who fought the dust and sand,
And in my mind I shared their lives and fought their battles too,
Captivated and enthralled, I lived each story through.
In every town and every place such stories are still told
Of pioneers and their feats and of the search for gold,
Each story holds a dozen truths and many deeds protrayed,
And so they pass from mouth to mouth, from such are legends made.
A legend is oft of common folk who have had to face a test,
And in the fight to overcome they rise above the rest,
Lesser men look on in awe the story passes on,
And eveeryone who hears the tale, retells in word and song.
From the comfort of a padded chair, an iced drink in my hand,
I view the splendour that is mine and feel that life is grand,
But still I dream those days of old and yearn once more to be
With all those folk I knew so well while on my father’s knee.