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- In St Helena you will tread
- Volcanic regions long since dead
- A soft entrancing vale;
- Right in the crater's very heart
- Where brimstone fires once took part,
- You'll find there runs a trail.
- Long shadows dance upon the ground
- Where each green hill with sun is crowned,
- And trees grow tall and straight
- And many birds with trilling song
- The branches in the treetops throng,
- From early mom till late.
- A chain of pools that mark the creek
- Where lizards 'neath the cool rocks seek
- For food and rest and shade,
- And tiny lacy fronds of fern
- From side to side so softly turn,
- By gentle zephyrs swayed.
- Below the ridge this sweet surprise
- Is really quite a paradise,
- In which you'd love to stay.
- Where grassy slopes of lightest green
- Present a fair refreshing scene,
- And Earth seems far away.
- Beryl Heather
- "Into The Blue"
- March 1938
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- 'Twas as though I had come to the edge of the
world
- As I stood looking out into space,
- While above and beyond the clouds billowed and
- swirled
- And completely transformed the whole place,
- For the mountains lay hidden behind the thick
mist,
- And no sign of the vale could I trace.
- And the vast panorama of mountains so fair
- That I always have seen from Clear Hill
- Had quite vanished away, and hung there instead
- Misty cloudlets that never were still,
- Ever shifting and changing and fading away,
- And then rushing the gap to reN1.
- And this beautiful scene found its way to my
heart
- As I watched itbefore me unfold,
- Softest mists in the valleys and mists on the
hills
- Made a picture I always shall hold,
- For I've stored it away in the depths of my
heart,
- To remember some day when I'm old.
- Beryl Heather
- "into The Blue"
- September 1948
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- AFTER THE FIRE
- By Beryl Heather
- (Coast and Mountain Walkers)
- The sky is dull and overcast,
- And though the clouds are high
- We hope that there will be come rain
- For all the creeks are dry.
- ’Tis six months now since last we
heard
- The laughter of the rills,
- The happy rippling gurgling streams
- That trickle down the hills.
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- Right down the vale the fires swept
- A week ago to-day,
- And now there’s just 8 blackened
waste
- Where once wall green and
grey.
- The birds and beasts in terror fled
- Before the wall of flame
- That hissed and roared relentlessly,
- Destroying as it came.
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- The ferns and shrubs and flowers gay
- That grew beneath the trees
- Were swallowed by the ruthless rush
- Of dame swept down the breeze.
- And e’en the tallest strongest trees
- Are black and badly charred,
- For though they’re victors In the
fight,
- Their boles are burnt and scarred.
- I felt that it would hurt to see
- The bush so desolate,
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- from The Bushwalker 1937
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