The sky is tickled pink
By impish clouds
That somersault and wink
Like lively clowns.
The morning sun applies
A saffron glow
To everything that lies
In shade below.
The wind adroitly tames
With combs and clips
The stubborn twisty frames
Of eucalypts.
And then you hear a sound
That’s far from bland:
Delightfully unbound
And out-of-hand,
It makes you jump and grin,
And, quite unplanned,
You have arrived: you’re in
Galah-lah-land.