I shall not always dwell in this place,

with its grimy walls and cold damp streets.

Where weeds push through chinks

and foul air stinks

of soot and the mill by the river.

 

For I shall lie under cool clean air,

Where the sky arches blue

and white clouds sail.

Where the wind blows free, to stir a branch

and warm earth to hold me close.

 

Or they’ll scatter my ashes

on a south facing hill.

Where the grass grows green

and the Whip Poor Will calls;

greeting the dusk with it’s piercing trill

and the dew turns to gold in the morn.

 

So its peace I’ll find, when it’s time to go.

And I’ll not be sorry to leave this place,

with its strife and hate and bone weary work

and the people gray white in the rain.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, 1989