CRESWICK TWILIGHT

Creswick twilight

Evening brings light that is poignant and magic,
And only the mullock commemorates mines;
Mellow the lights in the old town of Creswick,
Mellow are mem’ries of that other time.

The gold has been taken; miners sleep in its place,
In weary old soil somehow so hallowed.
And here in the gloaming, let there be grace
For the souls of those men broken and bowed.

The old goldfield

The bush is old and dark and full of slopes,
The trees grow ragged here, forlorn and still,
And bracken too conspires to blur the hill
And mask the shafts where men clung to their hopes.

And when evening’s light begins to wane,
And secrets darken in this crooked ground,
I often think that I can hear the sound
As men set to the diggings once again.

James Aitchison is an Australian poet whose work has appeared in Australian Poetry, Aesthetica (UK), The Mozzie, and the Australian Children's Poetry website.