-
-
|
-
|
- Memories
of Wallara Heights
-
-
- Wiping
fragments of thunderstorm from my eye
- I look out from the bleak ledge
- where night steps into the void.
- Clouds on wind-wings brush my face
- as the moons roll back across the years
- to Wallara Heights, down a back-ladder in
time...
- Pushing upslope from the shelter
- of a rivulet, we grappled
- across the grain of vegetation
- bristling like the nap
- on a topographic hide.
- We twisted through sturdy arms
- and fingers of over-lapping bushes
- where spinebills flashed by our noses.
- ‘You’re not coming through here’-
- the stiff gesture of the Banksia bush;
- so I stopped to taste a gum-leaf...and turned
- to see if you were following.
- I let the silence draw level
- and waited for the stern crunch
- of your feet; smelt the splash of sweat
- and pollen in my hair, squashed
- a sugary fly at the corner of my eye
- as tiny bees drowned themselves
- in the steam in my ears.
- All that night on the wind-swept height
- the moon drifted across my eyes
- as it sailed star-wards
- above our plateau camp,
- shining its torch through pallid clouds
- with mallee wands reaching up around us
- thrashing in symphony with the wind.
- Beside faint flickers of the fire
- I followed the pale face of that cold watcher,
- bleached sailor drawing a beacon
- across the sea of dark;
- a barnacled bow cresting the clouds
- splashing my eyes with ashen light
- washed through a meshwork of mallee.
- Sinking at the shore of a purple sea,
- the light in my mind fading with the fire;
- a feeble gleam on the map of night,
- my eyes straining to follow
- the progression of the moon
- beckoning toward
- the ridges of tomorrow.
|
-
|
- Coolangubra
Traverse
- The
chainsaws were silent on Sheepstation Creek
- Where they and the ’dozers had been working
all week;
- All week in the treasure trove cutting the
prize,
- Through the south-eastern forests, picking the
eyes.
- Under blanket-leaf cover we climbed up to
Nalbaugh,
- With lyre-bird fanfare we rose to the plateau,
- To Nalbaugh over Wog Wog and White Ash Saddle
- To the upland heights that the megaliths
straddle.
- Then across to Square Swamp where the scrub was
like wire
- Surrounding the sides of a high mountain mire
- Where Boronia grew, among others to mention
- The bladderwort aprons and a delicate gentian.
- The plateau lay clothed in cool temperate
apparel,
- Tall forest of messmate, silver wattle, brown
barrel,
- With huge granite tors from an ancient upheaval
- Evoking a scene prehistoric, primeval.
- At our feet grew exquisite and rare Tetratheca,
- And shrilling with song the white-throated
tree-creeper;
- The black cockatoos looked as though dressed in
leathers
- And acknowledged us simply by ruffling their
feathers.
- From Swamp Rock and White Rock we had views of
Nungatta,
- To the north Coolumbooka reclined on a platter;
- Through clouds the high summits appeared as if
islands
- Obscuring the far Tantawangalo Highlands.
- For two days and nights we sojourned on
Nalbaugh,
- We’d moved through the forest and fern of the
plateau,
- Till when from the mountain we had to disperse
- And proceed with our Coolangubra traverse:
- Evolution’s design - the blueprint of God,
- Untainted, unspoiled, where few’d before
trod;
- We crossed the Wog River and made the Wog Way
- And reached Reedy Creek in a full-on day.
- We had walked through the bracken and sidled
the falls,
- We had woken to lyre-birds rehearsing their
calls,
- We had woven through scrub as best we could do
- Zig-zagging on paths of the wild wallaroo;
- We’d seen what the wilderness keeps in its
store
- And passed through the forest mosaic in awe;
- We’d climbed the steep spur-lines and sidled
each spire
- And fallen to sleep by the coals of our fire.
- O mighty Coolangubra!
- May the rain clouds roll
- Forever on the forests
- Of the Kangaroo Skull;
- May your waters flow like nectar,
- May your storms like pulses beat,
- And may you cheat the snarling chainsaws
- A-snapping at your feet.
|
