Tinkling tones, sung upside down,
throughout the eucalyptus stand,
in native bush close to town,
'tis here, the last of un-cleared land.
Ti-tree, Dogwood must search for sun,
sword grass ribbons hold me back,
wild animals unseen here run,
leave a maze of walking track.
Tinkling tones to distraught call,
upon the head, the slightest crest,
for I am danger after all,
beside the flimsy egg-filled nest.
Be calm…bird of olive green,
for you fear, does not become,
I will not change your needed scene,
but I am only one.
Your island has survived the push,
a small and treasured major link,
that must remain the natural bush,
if I'm to hear the Bellbird's 'dink'.