There's a blackbird sits in the tea tree.
He's proud and smart and bold.
He calls to his mate on the paddock gate
in a voice of liquid gold.
On the fragrant air of the morning,
he rolls his crystal trill.
And the tumbling creek seems to chuckle and speak as it runs
by my home on the hill.
There's a quivering haze in the distance
where the hilltops sleep in the sun.
And in rhythm
strong,
the cicadas' song rasps a beat to the water's run.
Through the humming
strings of the noonday,
like a muted trumpet shrill,
hear the bantams call
screaming over all from my home on the side of the hill.
Comes a purple haze through the treetops,
and the light of a newborn star is a diamond
small on a velvet pole draped on the horizon far.
In the perfume breath of the evening,
there's a whisper warm and still at the end of day
when I go my way to my home on the side of the hill.