From far away, through fields of hay,
Through valleys steep and green,
From out of soaks, seeping evokes.
Joins up does stream by stream.
Through woodlands run, between the gum,
Where width and depth have rose,
O'er rock does trickle, bellbirds tinkle,
With the lyrebird calls exposed
Where time and age, plus natures rage,
Have cut and scoured a course,
Where trees have died, and now provide,
For the waters living force.
'Tis the easy ridge, a man made bridge,
Where we stand eye to eye,
As the Red Hill rushes, always flushes
What is gathered, floating by.
I turn my back and walk the bank,
Beside froth and flotsam cover,
Then I stand where, the sand's laid bare,
In flood, the water rushes over.
Beyond shadow line, clematis vine,
through Burgan twist with no remorse,
The clays erode, 'tween bluestone lode,
Where the water charts its course,
Close to where, a Wombat’s lair,
Leads to safety underground.
A Thornbill calls, and woodchip falls.
'Tis Black Cocky’s rain them down.
I've chased the crays, so many days,
Amid the waters turbid flow.
In long drought strife, that stifled life,
When pooled and trickling slow…
The winter’s sun, where the mountains run,
Is lost in the midst of June,
So it's time we wait, for spring comes late,
When the Blackwood Wattles bloom.
The dividing map, is the flowing gap,
Bordered by the Blackberry cane,
My tracks are made, in the well-grassed glade,
Where Red Hill Creek winds 'round the mountain.