Under the Coolabah Tree: A Collection of Australian Poetry

By Wendy Laing

Fun, amusing, sometimes rowdy and always delightfully full of Australian colour, this collection of Australian Bush poems is best read out loud--if you dare to try an Aussie accent!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Exchange E-Publishing
• Release date: Dec 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781921636288

Wendy Laing

Mt name is Wendy Laing and I am an Australian writer who lives in Deloraine, a small town on the island state of Tasmania.I am the Secretary and Competition Coordinator for the Society of Women Writers Tasmania and I also run a writers' group in Deloraine. I write articles for the Launceston Examiner newspaper and the Meander Valley Gazette.Although I have previously had poetry published in ‘Word Weavers’, and short stories in magazines such as Stylus, Memoirs of an Arresting Woman is my first fictional novella.

Book preview

Fang from Yang Yawn

I'm Fang of Yang Yawn, I live with me mate

Pat the swagman, retired of late.

He found me by the river, a pup

My eyes still shut, he picked me up,

A yelping bundle, without any hair.

'E took me back home into his care.

I grew very fast, big, and strong

without any hair, but a tail real long.

At the pub, I made 'em all dart.

I was the freak, with a strange loud bark.

I could swim like a fish and run very fast

If Pat was teased, I give 'em a blast!

My skin's like leather, tough and dark.

My mouth is huge. My growl's a bark.

My body's long and legs real short.

I growl and snap, grunt and snort.

The other dogs keep real clear,

cower in the corner, whimper in fear.

Pat and I go on our way;

we go for walks, swim, and play.

I splash in and dive underneath,

Knowing how to hold my breath,

then catch some fish for us to eat.

Pat gives a hug, and then a treat.

One day a croc came to the river

making swimmers scream and shiver.

Pat and I went there and saw

a boy dragged off from the shore

by big white teeth and scaly claw.

I jumped in after, and clacked my jaw.

The Doc and Vet grabbed a bandage,

while I snarled out in croc language.

I growled and snapped in a vicious tone;

the Croc sighed and said with a moan,

'Cripes, ya the image of ya mum.

I can't eat you, my little chum!'

He opened up his mouth real wide,

let the boy go and saved his hide.

He splashed his tail and swam away,

nae seen again from that day.

That is how the legend began

of the croc forlorn and brave young Fang.

There's pats and cheers now when I pass.

I lap beer from me very own glass.

I'm