Poems (Forrest)/Moonrise
For works with similar titles, see Moonrise.
MOONRISE
The Barley creek was running high, the Narrows were abrim,
As low I crouched beside the ridge, and watched an hour for him.
And out against the round red moon that lipped each standing twig
How black the drooping gum-boughs seemed! The moon how bright and big!
As low I crouched beside the ridge, and watched an hour for him.
And out against the round red moon that lipped each standing twig
How black the drooping gum-boughs seemed! The moon how bright and big!
The troopers watched the hills, I knew. But I, more wise than they,
Guessed that the man they hunted down would ride a nearer way.
If rider passed along the ridge from where I watched the track,
He would stand out against the moon, a silhouette in black.
So hidden in the fern I lay, for he, I loved, had sworn
That he would come to where I hid, at moonrise or at morn.
And then above the sighing wind, the leaf talk in the trees,
I thought I heard a horse's bit a-jingle in the breeze,
And all the red came to my cheeks, the kisses to my mouth,
As though a crush of roses fed the wind along the South.
I peered between the ferny cowls; I clasped my hands above
The heart that ached to cry aloud thanksgiving for its love.
I saw him black against the red. How blood-red was the moon!
And more of summer was the air than like a night in June,
A frosty night. And clear the sound of hoof-beats on the track:
And he a target on the moon, the red beyond the black.
Guessed that the man they hunted down would ride a nearer way.
If rider passed along the ridge from where I watched the track,
He would stand out against the moon, a silhouette in black.
So hidden in the fern I lay, for he, I loved, had sworn
That he would come to where I hid, at moonrise or at morn.
And then above the sighing wind, the leaf talk in the trees,
I thought I heard a horse's bit a-jingle in the breeze,
And all the red came to my cheeks, the kisses to my mouth,
As though a crush of roses fed the wind along the South.
I peered between the ferny cowls; I clasped my hands above
The heart that ached to cry aloud thanksgiving for its love.
I saw him black against the red. How blood-red was the moon!
And more of summer was the air than like a night in June,
A frosty night. And clear the sound of hoof-beats on the track:
And he a target on the moon, the red beyond the black.
A curlew whistled from the plain; a mopoke flapped; and then—
The night was full of spitting oaths, and pistol shots, and men.
I thought the troopers watched the hills. Ah, God, how could I know
Among the laces of the fern they, too, were crouching low?
I saw a trooper's grim-set face across a fallen log.
My Man? Among the shattered gorse they trapped him like a dog!
The night was full of spitting oaths, and pistol shots, and men.
I thought the troopers watched the hills. Ah, God, how could I know
Among the laces of the fern they, too, were crouching low?
I saw a trooper's grim-set face across a fallen log.
My Man? Among the shattered gorse they trapped him like a dog!
······
The sergeant got his stripes for this. My man hanged yesterday.
. . . The sergeant with his new-won stripes to-night will pass this way.
The red moon will be full to-night, and very bright and big
Across her face the boughs will stand, clean-cut in every twig;
And I shall creep among the fern—I know the old trail well,
It is the road that lies between the walls of Heaven and Hell—
With rifle laid across my knees I'll watch the dewy track:
The sergeant 'twixt me and the moon, a silhouette in black. . .
. . . The sergeant with his new-won stripes to-night will pass this way.
The red moon will be full to-night, and very bright and big
Across her face the boughs will stand, clean-cut in every twig;
And I shall creep among the fern—I know the old trail well,
It is the road that lies between the walls of Heaven and Hell—
With rifle laid across my knees I'll watch the dewy track:
The sergeant 'twixt me and the moon, a silhouette in black. . .