Nostalgia

There is perfume in the garden,
and a rustling in the trees,
as the atmosphere is scented
by a fickle summer breeze.

There is magic in the moonlight,
purple shadows everywhere,
and the cries of ring-tailed possums,
in the bush, cut through the air.

On the mango trees the ripening fruit
is touched by pearly glow,
and the feasting flying-foxes
squeak and quarrel as they go.

Where the heady honeysuckle
lets a drift of blossoms fall,
the cascading golden creeper
spreads enchantment over all.

By the creek the giant red-gums stand,
like ancient dream-time guards at bay,
and the possums slip among the leaves,
to slumber through the day.

As the lushness of the waning night
envelops me like rain,
I can feel my heart is beating out
a tumultuous refrain.

For scenes of youth can never be
replaced by memory,
and home is where the exiled heart
must ever long to be.