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City dawn, hurry on… there’s an apricot morning falling in my hand.
And deeper hues of greens and blues wave and shine across the waterline, like an emerald fan.
I’m country born, city worn keeping my distance, taking my time…
living day to day, that’s the price I pay to call this city mine.

City street, no-one to meet, just a cool dawn ferry horn in the silver sun.
Walk the blocks around the docks, peep in early doorways… day’s begun.
It’s winter time and these days unwind like a promise you can see.
You live them right to the end and then they fold you into their company, so tenderly,
You’ve got to be bound to be free.

Was it only there in your mind? No, it stole the heart of me.
Did you leave it all behind? No, it’s still a part of me…
That life still pulls my dreams along…
but it’s a melody that’s lost its song.

Five o’clock and the doors are locked… people all their faces down won’t nod or look around.
And by the docks the lanes are blocked by one by one, all going home without a sound.
Ah, but the city rings, and the harbour sings all the greens, the greys and the blues.
You can walk away from the salt and the spray but it’s the taste you never lose.
Ah, the harbour calls, through the wind and the gulls, and echoes down the years…
You can fly away, an emigré
But your heart, your heart stays here.

Edinburgh 1974/Moss Vale, 2022

Who is this kid, all blonde and ribbons in her hair?
These children round her knees, too young to know or care.
Is it love, or is it duty in that stare?
It took a worried conversation to re-imagine those teenage plans.
Set the woman free to turn and grab her life with both her hands.
She’s in shock… and barely breathing as her world expands.

Another place, a different drum What might this become?

Alone and free… for maybe half a minute.
Till her moment catches her up and she’s right there in it.
Holding steady, she’s ripe and ready to begin it.
But then a day becomes a decade and leaves her spinning her wheels.
And the circle comes around, there’s love and duty in a baby’s squeals.
And she’s caught… between the way she thinks and the way she feels.
Another face, a different drum, What might she become?

Who’s this at her back door with his life in flames?
Does she hose him down and listen, or let him wait until it rains?
I was there with all my anger, my confusion and my shame.
She got me sad and burned and broken, but she took me just the same.

Look at these eyes, all blue and shining through her fears.
They can see the shape of a human heart, but then she calls it for what it is.
Could be a gift, could be trouble, but that’s the drum she hears.
And it’s wild and warm and wilful, restless and real.
And it beats with the hope in her heart, and the love it reveals.
And it lives as it learns as it gives as it yearns as it heals.

A little grace, a different drum, See what she’s become. A little Grace, a little Grace…

Moss Vale, 2022

It’s goodbye to the simple pleasures, they’ve all been done for by degrees.
Terrorised and sacrificed to put your passion on its knees.
But maybe there’s an artist’s heart inside you, maybe you were born with a builder’s hands…
if you can take the timber, if you can draw that line, you’ll find the freedom they demand.

Think it three times over, take its measure twice…
take it careful, cut it once, a little patience is the price.
That’s all you’ll pay to see those pieces lock together like they should…
You’ll hear the echo of creation in those bits of wood.

Ripped out in their billions, worlds of forest stripped and scorched.
Corporate spleen’s the gasoline to put this planet to the torch.
It takes such conscious, blind delusion to sustain denial’s myth,
there’s just no will to comprehend what the earth is dealing with.

Think it three times over, take its measure twice…
take it careful, as you plant them, a little patience is the price.
That’s all you’ll pay to see those saplings grow from where their seeds were laid…
you’ll hear the echo of creation the day you stretch out in their shade.

And then the weather turns to how it’s been, the answers leave some room for doubt,
and what you find between the lines, too painful to drag out.
Conversation stalls mid-sentence, it’s tears or walk away.
Do you leave the silence tend the wounds, or you find a word to say?

Think it three times over, take its measure twice…
take it careful, say it once, a little patience is the price.
That’s all you’ll pay to see the difference an honest word might mean…
You’ll hear the echo of creation where the truth has been.

And then you’ll feel your spirit rising on anticipation’s wings…
You’ll hear the echo of creation in the song it sings.

Sydney, 1998

Researchers out for decades in the field or in the lab,
or in the basement with the cadavers and the rats.
extraordinary people who like to do the kind of thinking
that can stop a killer virus in its tracks.
Now they’ve diagnosed the planet’s cancer,
but you like your answer better than two centuries of belching fossil fuel.
Well, you’ll survive your triple bypass thanks to them,
while the planet’s burning thanks to witless fossil fools.

And it’s the same science – penicillin to pollution
It’s the same science – vaccines to evolution
It’s the same science – emissions to diffusion
It’s the same, same, same!
The polar ice-caps to your brain – It’s the same science
From your prostate to the rain – It’s the same science
Mass extinction to your pain – It’s the same science
Just remind me once again – It’s the same science.

We all love a horse and buggy round the park, but when it’s muddy,
we’ll take the Lamborghini for a spin.
You gotta love the engineering, the GPS, the power steering,
Just push that button… it reverses itself in!
And what about the Airbus, satellites, and helicopters?
It’s physics keeps believers in the sky.
So now even sceptics buy a seat to fly at 40,000 feet
Though there’s always two or three convinced they’re going to die!

And it’s the same science – parachutes to gin and tonic
It’s the same science – turbulence, electronics
It’s the same science – communications to photonics
It’s the same, same, same!
Permafrost to OCD – It’s the same science
Big Data to the bees – It’s the same science
Solastalgia to the trees – It’s the same science
And it doesn’t take a genius to see…
It’s the same science!

Permaculture, gender, penguins, quantum engineering, astrophysics,
ecosystems, it’s sex, bionic hearing.
It’s memory, it’s energy, it’s frogs and healthy babies,
it’s questions and it’s answers, no more ifs or buts or maybes.

But I do like my iPhone. It brings me comfort while I sleep,
All those little apps and tips, the buzzing and the beeps.
And Siri knows my bank accounts, my logins and my movements,
and she sells them to the Chinese, before she makes ‘improvements’ to the system –
what the hell in for a penny or a pound, brought us Facebook, Trump and Twitter,
not even Siri can shut’em down.
Black art or Apple magic, we’re all a bunch of smartphone tragics,
looking more and more like creepy online clowns.

And it’s the same science – but us beggars won’t be choosers
It’s the same science – we’re all addicted and we’re users
It’s the same science – sycophantic losers
It’s the same, same, same!
Is this the way it’s always been? It’s the same science
Is God really there in that machine? It’s the same science
Though it gets more scary and obscene – it’s the same science
Pull the plug and get out clean… it’s the same science.

Lefty pinko hippie latte-sipping greenie bludgers,
versus Tory racist looney-fringe entitled budgie-smugglers
Theories and conspiracies, politics and bluffing –
what happens if it’s all a hoax and we build a better world for nothing?

When it’s the same science – daring and disruptive
It’s the same science – complicated, constructive
It’s the same science – amoral and seductive
It’s the same, same, same!
Anyone can dummy up the future – it’s the same science
Just cherry-pick the bits that suitcha – it’s the same science
The weight of science will refutcha – it’s the same science
And the burning planet will rebootcha…
It’s the same, same, same!
For better or for worse – It’s the same science
It’s pervasive, it’s perverse – It’s the same science
It’s not a blessing, it’s not a curse – it’s just the same science
Across the universe…
It’s the same, it’s the same, it’s the same … It’s the same, it’s the same, the same science!

Moss Vale, 2020

It turned up at my door with no explanation.
An invitation to be part of something rare.
Just a simple flower drawn by hand,
but that illustration had a power that convinced me to be there.

It was a cottage like a lantern in the freezing dark,
its walls all hung with orchids, and roots and sinew.
Each one described in Latin, from the very cradle of the earth.
Oh if God is in the details, she was there too.

Take a long hard look before you go…
A long hard look ‘cause you never know.

On a mission with a grandchild and a camera.
We laughed and stumbled as we pushed into the wind.
Out on the cliffs alone to catch the drama of an evening
that was shreiking like a Celtic violin.

He jumped down to a ledge just out of sight…
I thought he’d tripped and gone headlong into the sea.
But then I heard him laugh and promise it was easy…
so I jumped too, and I slipped, and I slid towards the edge till something caught me.

Take a long hard look look before you go…
A long hard look ‘cause you never know.

And Gracie was as faithful as her life was long.
Every day a psalm, every child a song, every breath a prayer.
Cast as the simple wife and mother, but she played a warrior of love,
living out the movie of her life like no-one else would dare.

Broken by the decades, time set her up to shut her down
but she stood her ground, her weakness made her stronger.
She waited to be a witness to the world where she was bound.
And when it finally gathered round her she let go,
she didn’t wait a moment longer.

Take a long hard look look before you go…
A long hard look ‘cause you never know.
Take a long hard look look before you go…
A long hard look ‘cause you never know.

Moss Vale, 2024

I could take my worries down to the sea,
but the ocean’s never been the blue for me.
Restless motion, salty spray –
it always ends up driving me away.
And though the harbour’s magic at night,
dazzling in the light,
it’s never been a friend I really knew.
When it’s comfort that I need,
I let my spirit lead and it brings me back
to Brindabella Blue.

Brindabella Blue, gentle as the touch of morning dew.
Gathering in the gullies, rising like a dream coming true.
Brindabella Blue, colours of the country shining through,
Roll them in a rainbow, wrap it up in Brindabella Blue.

I know I need a city to earn my keep,
but I never really felt I’d earned my sleep.
Chasing rainbows might have been OK,
but I never saw the colours, just the grey.
Until I heard a melody, that touched the heart of me
and looking up I caught a glimpse of something new.
There was a maggie on the wing,
a little sun to help her sing,
and the sky was turning Brindabella Blue.

Brindabella Blue, gentle as the touch of morning dew.
Gathering in the gullies, rising like a dream coming true.
Brindabella Blue, colours of the country shining through,
Roll them in a rainbow, wrap it up in Brindabella Blue.

They were celebrating an early spring,
but I’d never seen a sadder gathering.
When a woman, there in the gloom,
took my breath away with a smile that lit the room.
I was taken by surprise till I realised,
it was her eyes, and not her smile that were the clue…
bright as a mountain morning,
 soft as an autumn moon,
and a colour I’d call Brindabella Blue!

Brindabella Blue, gentle as the touch of morning dew.
Gathering in the gullies, rising like a dream coming true.
Brindabella Blue, colours of the country shining through,
Roll them in a rainbow, wrap it up in Brindabella Blue.
Colours of the country shining through.
Roll them in a rainbow, wrap it up in Brindabella Blue.

Sydney, 1988

Last moments of summer
and I know the price you’re paying.
Where my head is going, I’m not saying.
Ravens call across the valleys.
Robins flicker in the dawn.
Water falling into rainbows, and I’m not saying.

There’s still some gold between the shadows,
crimson stitching through the trees.
And autumn knows, and autumn sees and I’m not saying,
I’m not saying.

You can’t refuse the wind,
but I can’t blame you for trying.
This season’s gone to turning and I’m not saying.
It sweeps across the ridges,
shredding the sky to silver ribbons,
tossed on velvet, lined with linen,
and I’m not saying.

Spinning mist of crystal,
drifting high, it lifts and falls.
Winter knows and winter calls, and I’m not saying,
I’m not saying.

Worlds of silence frozen into white.
Every branch and gully gone to haze in the failing light.
There’s a fire right at the core of love, set to ignite,
and everything I’ve never said is yours tonight.
All I’ve never said is yours…

Fold into my arms, treasure this longing.
Where my heart is I’m not saying.
Blizzard rages around the mountains,
howling out its warning.
Rocks us through to morning and I’m not saying.

When will we ever see the honeybee,
wildflowers in the sun?
Spring will know and spring will come
and I’m not saying.
Spring will know, and spring will come…

Moss Vale, 2023

The politics of poverty are the politics of power.
Arrogant expedience, democracy turning sour.
Brutal lies and secrecy, denial and obfuscation.
Confected tears and outrage, bully-boy indignation for the cameras.
For the socials. For the media sensation.
For the kickback. For the payback. Gaslighting a nation.
Naked grab for power wrapped in promises of glory.
Silence the dissent, control the sources,
then just sit back, invent the story…

It’s a burden of hope that we carry, it’s the wheel of history we turn.
Creation’s the candle, wisdom the flame we must burn.
It’s the light on the road that we follow, a beacon burning.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.
Burden of hope, burden of justice…

Black deaths in custody, but it’s the ballot box that matters.
Cynical bureaucracies leave their dignity in tatters.
Violated sacred ground, its spirit raped and plundered.
Dreamtime children exiled from country they’ve tended
for endless generations, down through turning galaxies of time.
Land and water, life and law and language intertwined.
Stolen children, stolen wages, incarcerated and dispossessed.
Place and voice and identity stolen with all the rest.

It’s a burden of hope that we carry, it’s the wheel of history we turn
Creation’s the candle, wisdom the flame we must burn.
It’s the light on the road that we follow, a beacon burning.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.

There’s still chaos at the Capitol, but it’s the weather that we fear.
The ice retreats, the oceans rise, whole countries disappear.
Ruptured lives wash by their million into that toxic tide,
climate refugees adrift where the earth and greed collide.
And they’re stateless, helpless, can’t go forward, can’t go back.
We’re at half a second to midnight, there’s just a moment to change our tack.
While the door of hope stands open, and as the hopeless step inside,
the wheel begins to turn where truth and equality,
respect and dignity, freedom and justice are denied.

It’s a burden of hope that we carry, it’s the wheel of history we turn
Creation’s the candle, wisdom the flame we must burn.
It’s the light on the road that we follow, a beacon burning.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.
Burden of hope, burden of justice, burden of love.

Sydney, 1990 / Moss Vale, 2023

I stand at the window…
it all looks just the same…
et a highland fire listen to the rain.

You take the hand of a child…
brush the sand from her face,
and walking home from the sea
every step leaves a trace in your heart.

Make a memory with every moment
with every part you’ll come to play.
Wherever it sets, somewhere it’s rising…
just send me the sun, from half the world away.

I fall asleep with your faces
in the palm of my hand…
toss in the night,
dreams I don’t understand.

And you wake to a whisper,
and little hands in your hair…
every touch is a treasure
they’re all hidden right there in your heart.

Make a memory with every moment
with every word she’ll find to say.
Wherever it sets, somewhere it’s rising…
just send me the sun, from half the world away.

And we talk… down through the garden…
soft evening light.
And there are shadows in your eyes,
but you’re alright.
And she spins around the circle…
the suns weaves gold into her hair,
She remembers to remember…
she knows we’ll always be there in her heart.

Make a memory with every moment,
with every tear you wipe away.
Wherever it sets, somewhere it’s rising…
just send us the sun from half the world away.

She sends us the sun from half the world away.

Moss Vale, 2019

We wear a coat of many colours, all the colours of the sun.
We share the coat of human kind, this coat fits everyone.
We wear a coat of many colours from the greatest to the least,
We will not wear a coat of arms, we wear the coat of peace.
We will not wear a coat of arms, we wear the coat of peace.

We take the hands left bruised and broken, hands that draw near to caress.
We take the hand that curls into a fist, the hands that reach out to confess
We take the hand of the lost and lonely, of the angel and the beast,
The hand that bleeds, the hands in need, we walk hand in hand in peace.
The hand that bleeds, the hands in need, we walk hand in hand in peace.

Some gather here to kneel in silence, some come in hope, some in disgrace.
Some come to sing, some just come to listen, some come to weep, some for just one embrace.
Some come to name the face of evil, that these atrocities may cease.
Some come to pray, some just come and stay, ‘cause we gather here in peace.
Some come to pray, some just come and stay, ‘cause we gather here in peace.

And we sing the songs of joy and sorrow, of life and love and loss.
Songs of a road that’s steep and narrow, of rivers we still must cross.
We sing the songs of grace and courage, of bondage and release.
Songs of longing, songs of home, we sing the songs of peace.
Songs of longing, songs of home, we sing the songs of peace.

And we wear a coat of many colours, all the colours of the sun.
We share the coat of human kind, this coat fits everyone.
We wear a coat of many colours, from the greatest to the least.
We will not wear a coat of arms, we wear the coat of peace.
We will not wear a coat of arms, we wear the coat of peace.
We will not wear a coat of arms, we wear the coat of peace.

Moss Vale, 2024

We had a few drops this morning but you couldn’t call it rain,
some cloud blew in at dawn, blew away again.
You’ll sometimes see a little green and though it lasts a day or two,
the grasshoppers’ll take it before the cattle do.

The weary shrug their shoulders now,some stay on, some move away.
Some reckon it’s been as bad before but just what happened they won’t say.

Waiting on the weather, waiting on the sky.
The stock won’t last much longer and the tanks are dry.
The young ones pray the rain will fall and all the tanks just fill,
And the old ones pray forgiveness, believing they never will, again.

There’s still so much to get used to, though it’s eleven years in June.
This time we joined the sheep too early and lambing came too soon.
And then August came so windy, they couldn’t take the chill.
Lost over half, just over night, I guess we’re learning still!

We take the feed right to them now, but the hayshed looks so lean,
we think we’d be wise to give some more away judging the future by the way it’s been.

Waiting on the weather, waiting on the sky.
The stock won’t last much longer and the dams are dry.
And the young ones pray for miracles but now some just pretend,
and the old ones pray for patience and muster the sheep to send away.

We came to find our peace upon the land.
I came to feel the soil upon my hands.
And despite the lonely battle that it’s been,
I’ve begun to feel a long and joyful silence growing somewhere deep within me.

And now it hardly seems worth saying with so much worry on our minds,
but I can’t help feeling part of some design.
Drought may change the colours, even turn a life to grey,
but I’m past believing that’s too great a price to pay.

And the ploughing’s almost over now, could have had it all done today
except the bottom 30’s fence is down and all the rams have got away.

Waiting on the weather, waiting on the sky.
The stock won’t last much longer and the creeks are dry.
The young ones don’t know what to do, they just sit and wait for rain.
And the old ones laugh, and go inside and get down on their knees again.

Sydney, 1983