WRONG SEASON

MY EXPERIENCE AS A FLYCATCHER SCOUT IN CENTRAL AUSTRALIA

I hooted and scouted I talked and touted I said 'invite them in' They said 'maybe next edition' Door closed. No win.

I sorted and sifted Blinkered and drifted From gate to gate Passing classroom slate What would be publishing fate?

No build up. Wrong season. Silence. No reason. No time. No trace. No cut. No paste. No academic waste.

Attention snatcher. Could I yell. Flycatcher. No sell. With only the kite birds for witness Stirring morning air stillness A sole jogger seeks fitness

River Red gums chatter to solid rocks Sums are calculated by galah flocks Light floods morning glories A lone crow is obligatory In Centralian stories.

I’ll keep scouting about Students voice deserve the shout I’ll keep throwing out hints Imagination is not skint Keep an eye out for next print.

You can listen to this poem here.