Julie Tawse
autumn weaves her magic deep in my Neerim garden soil awakening to busy blackbirds while a bowerbird call descends leaves lie quiet beneath silent drifts of mist soft songs of loss a longing for freedom in warm arrays on the wind
autumn weaves her magic deep in my Neerim garden soil awakening to busy blackbirds while a bowerbird call descends leaves lie quiet beneath silent drifts of mist soft songs of loss a longing for freedom in warm arrays on the wind