The Sun was dying, in the west.
As all the animals, went to rest.
While underneath a coolibah tree,
Only a rabbit was there to see.
The moon is now up, golden and round.
Keeping its vigil o'er all the ground.
Looking down on the bushland folk
Where even the Kooka' has ceased to joke.
The night drags on, weary and long.
With never a sound, movement or song.
While on the furtherest bough of a tree,
A possum sleeps with his head on his knee.
And when at last the dawn does break,
The animals drink at the placid lake.
They eat the soft and dewy grass.
Beside the beaten dingo path.