I was born in the swamp..it’s peaceful here, the young hunter pointed out a crocodile, half hidden by a Mangrove Tree. In the bow of the old wooden boat- “Mallacoota”, silent and spellbound rode The Vagabond Godfrey.
This is my High Country Run, Godfrey strode the hills with the Shepard girl, rode the bed of the Ute in dust and sun with the sheepdogs. At evensong they watched the sunset, over the rugged Blue Tier. Tasmania- Godfrey wrote, oh it is peaceful here.
Welcome to my home, the elderly writer beckoned to him. An odd octagonal shaped room, turkey wall-paper. It was cluttered with papers and books, overlooking a city bridge. Nothing in the fridge, they shared crackers with mustard and beer. Make yourself at home in my little cave, she told him Godfrey dear..it’s peaceful here.
This is where I came from, said the friendly family showing Godfrey their birthplace on a map. He said he could not fathom, living in war and fear. They told Godfrey,”What you see on the news and can walk away,we lived that every day” My old home is far away..it’s peaceful here.
Godfrey on the night of his birthday sat alone, he gave thanks for the cupcake he held, and another happy year, I am a free and the world is my home, it’s peaceful here.