The Forgotten Voices of the Night

When daylight dies beyond the range and Blackwoods sigh no more,
The hush of dusk begins to creep across the forest floor.
No trumpet sounds, no banner waves, no marching human feet,
But still a stir begins to rise where silence and shadows meet.

The sun retreats behind the hills, the heat begins to drain,
And stars, like ancient witnesses, blink softly over plain.
Below the ghost gums’ silver limbs and skies of darkest slate,
The night folk rise with quiet grace beyond the garden gate.

A rustle near the termite mound, a flicker by the creek,
The world we rarely care to know, the ones who never speak.
A boobook owl with amber eyes, in stillness sharp and wise,
Lands silent on a bark-stripped limb and scans the moonlit skies.

The microbat with membranous wings performs a nightly dance,
Its cries too high for human ears, too quick for human glance.
It weaves between the she-oak limbs, through folds of silent air,
A flitting, unseen artisan who draws no crowd to stare.

And deeper in the understory, where spider orchids bloom,
The brush-tailed phascogale begins to chase away the gloom.
Its paws leave prints on bark and stone, so dainty and so light,
A ghost of fur and flicking tail, a whisper in the night.

The nightjar sings a hollow song from where the grasses sway,
Net-wings like parchment lanterns drift in fragile, fevered play.
Katydids tune their wings with care, then pause before they scream,
Yet softer are mole cricket’s hymns that dance between each dream.

By mangrove roots and estuaries where tidal pulses churn,
The ghost crab scribes its runes on sand, no need for our concern.
And somewhere in a mountain ash, the sugar glider leaps,
While humans sleep through wonder’s hour, the bush no vigil keeps.

But every year, the towns grow out, and flood the dark with light,
They chase away the sacred dusk and bleach the holy night.
A sensor clicks, a streetlamp glares, a drone begins to thrum,
And still we miss the masterpiece the world has just become.

The skinks retreat below the mulch, woylies go still and hide,
The feathertails avoid the roads where death is multiplied.
We stake our claim with neon signs and paint the stars away,
While ancient voices slowly fade and hush before the day.

But where is now the curlew’s cry that echoed through the dusk?
Replaced by motors grinding on, exhaust and oil and musk.
The quoll now climbs a power line instead of stringy bark,
And glows under fluorescent glare instead of twilight dark.

Still they sing, these hidden hearts, though few are left to hear,
They whisper down the granite slopes and shimmer through the clear.
They do not rage or beg or boast, or knock upon our door,
But weave their lives through tangled brush, as they have evermore.

Their voices rise in subtle tones: a rustle, flap, or hiss,
The kind of sound a poet hears and dares not ever miss.
The wingbeat of a tawny frogmouth gliding low and slow,
The glimmer in a bilby’s eyes where star and shadow glow.

You won’t find them on busy roads, or where the cities spread,
But where the lantana creeps unchecked and leaf mulch makes its bed.
Where wombats dig and time forgets, where tree heath drink the dew,
And no one sets a clock to chime, or cuts the dark in two.

Hence when you wander under the moon where melaleucasway,
And leave behind the brash laments that populate the day,
Let silence take you by the hand and lead your senses right
Into the symphony that dwells within the arms of night.

For not all beauty makes a sound that pleases human ear,
And not all truth is found below the sun, so bright and clear.
There’s wisdom in a spider’s tread across a hollow log,
And deep communion in the breath of mist above the bog.

We’ve made a cage of light and speed, of towers, glass, and steel,
Yet part of us remains attuned to what the dusk reveals.
It’s not too late to listen in, to turn the torches low,
And meet the kin we’ve long ignored, whose lives in silence flow.

Thus may this poem be a bell, a net of sound and grace,
To catch the names we’ve long forgot, to honour every place.
Where wings still beat and feet still scurry underneath our sight,
Let’s raise a toast, and bow our heads, to voices of the night.

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