Camp-Fire

The gleam of the leaping firelight, the fall of gloom again,
The weary climb at sunset, the spurt before the rain,
The ruddy embers framing landscapes of hill and sea,
A peal of dishes chiming, and lemon-cheese for tea.

The morning track, and the noontide long,
The swinging pack, and the biting thong,
The evening shack, and a thoughtful song,
And fitful, darting firelight.

The song of the wind aloft, the beat of the storm outside,
The dash for the swing-bridge croft, in the cool of eventide,
The pungent smoke recalling odours of bush and fern,
The sound of water falling, clear from the cragside burn.

The morning track and the noontide long,
The swinging pack, and the biting thong,
The evening shack, and a careless song.
And friendly fading firelight.

R.F.F.