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The window in the front room
spanning over acres of light
encompassing years of family
impaired only by a rather obtuse chip
Nan said the chip was the result of a rifle shot
Uncle Murray put it down to the mower’s stone

Outside galahs passed gently overhead
the farmers moved onward’s
over their crops of green
sprayers gave thirst to newborn plants
whilst over the river the township lay still

The church towering over the houses affront
the chairs inside they sang of tradition
of rich rural land filled with hard working souls
the piano played softly caressing the day

An easy southerly breeze overflowed the stockman’s seat
where sat the veranda
the old man and his dog
boots so proud they stood up on their own
music boxes
paintings of yesteryear

Freshly cut lawns
drew in the meandering trees
all the time above
kept cool by the fans
summer wouldn’t be summer
without Christmas at Nans