John Williamson

Posted by: Celandine

John Williamson - 08/17/13 05:06 PM





Cootamundra Wattle - John Williamson

Don't go lookin' through that old camphor box woman,
You know those old things only make you cry.
When you dream upon that little bunny rug
It makes you think that life has passed you by
There are days when you wish the world would stop woman,
But then you know some wounds would never heal
But when I browse the early pages of the children
It's then I know exactly how you feel.

Hey it's July and the winter sun is shining
And the Cootamundra wattle is my friend
For all at once my childhood never left me
'Cause wattle blossoms bring it back again

It's Sunday and you should stop the worry woman,
Come out here and sit down in the sun
Can't you hear the magpies in the distance?
Don't you feel the new day has begun?
Can't you hear the bees making honey woman,
In the spotted gums where the bellbirds ring?
You might grow old and bitter cause you missed it,
You know some people never hear such things

Hey it's July and the winter sun is shining
And the Cootamundra wattle is my friend
For all at once my childhood never left me
'Cause wattle blossoms bring it back again

Don't buy the daily papers any more woman,
Read all about what's going on in hell.
They don't care to tell the world of kindness,
Good news never made a paper sell.
There's all the colours of the rainbow in the garden woman,
And symphonies of music in the sky.
Heaven's all around us if you're looking,
But how can you see it if you cry.

Hey it's July and the winter sun is shining
And the Cootamundra wattle is my friend
For all at once my childhood never left me
'Cause wattle blossoms bring it back again.


Posted by: Celandine

Re: John Williamson - 08/17/13 05:15 PM





Galleries of Pink Galahs

Galleries of pink galahs,
Crystal nights with diamond stars,
Apricots preserved in jars,
That's my home.

Land of oceans in the sun,
Purple hazes, river gum,
Breaks your heart when rain won't come,
It breaks your heart.

It takes a harsh and cruel drought
To sort the weaker saplings out,
It makes room for stronger trees
Maybe that's what life's about.

Winter's come, the hills are brown,
Shops are closed, the blinds are down.
Everybody's leaving town,
They can't go on.

The south wind through verandah gauze
Whines and bangs the homestead doors.
A mother curses dusty floors,
And feels alone.

Trucks and bulk bins filled with rust,
Boy leaves home to make a crust.
A father's dreams reduced to dust,
But he must go on.

Tortured red gums - unashamed,
Sunburnt country wisely named.
Chisel-ploughed and wire-claimed,
But never, never, never tamed.

Whirlwind swirls a paper high,
Same old news of further dry.
Of broken clouds just passing by,
That's my home.