Just in time....

Yet again...I'm just making the daily blogging post deadline...with 20 minutes to spare!

I haven't stopped all day today from 5am until I sat down with eldest DD at 8.30pm to watch a feel-good chick flick on TV! Haven't watched a TV movie in ages!

Busy day tomorrow kicking off with a session with my reflexologist...then MIL is off to have her foot X-Rayed....then a car load of girls to the movies!

Hoping to get time to tackle this month's Graditude Journal entry and make a start on my handbag I'm sewing with the pattern I purchased from Lynnie at A Passion for Craft! Promise pics if I actually get any of it done!

I found a poem today that touched me --- an Australian poem by Henry Kendall called "The Last of his Tribe" (Kendall also wrote Bell Birds - which I can remember Dad reciting parts to me when I was younger)...thought I'd share it with you...

He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
And hides in the dark of his hair;
For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
Or think of the loneliness there—
Of the loss and the loneliness there.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their covers for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear—
With the nullah, the sling, and the spear.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the top of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes,
Have made him a hunter again—
A hunter and fisher again.

For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought;
But he dreams of the hunts of yore,
And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought
With those who will battle no more—
Who will go to the battle no more.

It is well that the water which tumbles and fills,
Goes moaning and moaning along;
For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills,
And he starts at a wonderful song—
At the sounds of a wonderful song.

And he sees through the rents of the scattering fogs,
The corroboree warlike and grim,
And the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs,
To watch, like a mourner, for him—
Like a mother and mourner for him.

Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,
Like a chief, to the rest of his race,
With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,
And gleams like a dream in his face—
Like a marvellous dream in his face?