South Of My Days Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEFGC HFIJCKA CLMNOLPQR SAGFTUV WXYZCLFAA2

South of my days' circle part of my blood's countryA
rises that tableland high delicate outlineB
of bony slopes wincing under the winterC
low trees blue leaved and olive outcropping graniteD
clean lean hungry country The creek's leaf silencedE
willow choked the slope a tangle of medlar and crabappleF
branching over and under blotched with a green lichenG
and the old cottage lurches in for shelterC
-
O cold the black frost night The walls draw in to the warmthH
and the old roof cracks its joints the slung kettleF
hisses a leak on the fire Hardly to be believed that summer will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler rosesI
thrust it's hot face in here to tell another yarnJ
a story old Dan can spin into a blanket against the winterC
Seventy years of stories he clutches round his bonesK
Seventy years are hived in him like old honeyA
-
Droving that year Charleville to the HunterC
nineteen one it was and the drought beginningL
sixty head left at the McIntyre the mud round themM
hardened like iron and the yellow boy diedN
in the sulky ahead with the gear but the horse went onO
stopped at Sandy Camp and waited in the eveningL
It was the flies we seen first swarming like beesP
Came to the Hunter three hundred head of a thousandQ
cruel to keep them alive and the river was dustR
-
Or mustering up in the Bogongs in the autumnS
when the blizzards came early Brought them down weA
brought them down what aren't there yet Or driving for Cobb's on the runG
up from Tamworth Thunderbolt at the top of Hungry HillF
and I give him a wink I wouldn't wait long FredT
not if I was you The troopers are just behindU
coming for that job at the Hillgrove He went like a luny him on his big black horseV
-
Oh they slide and they vanishW
as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cardsX
True or not it's all the same and the frost on the roofY
cracks like a whip and the back log break into ashZ
Wake old man This is winter and the yarns are overC
No one is listeningL
South of my days' circleF
I know it dark against the stars the high lean countryA
full of old stories that still go walking in my sleepA2

Judith Wright



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