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As kids we called it Springsure’s Hill,
A wonderful place to hone our skill,
Playing in scrub till light was gone
Hide and seek with my brother Ron.

We knew the birds; they knew us too,
Bellbird, Thornbill, Black Cockatoo,
Bandicoots strange digging habits,
Along the fence line trapping rabbits.

There is no sunrise on Springsure Hill,
But sunsets do my senses fill,
Every tree has an orange glow, 
Shroud of nightfall follows shadow.

Never ever thought I’d see the day,
When all that scrub was cleared away,
But I’m not to worry it will be fine.
On the hill they’re planting pine. 

They’re cutting down trees to plant more trees,
It don’t make sense until one sees,
How quick does grow this foreign pine,
Every row is a perfect line.

The hill grows lush and a sea of green,
With not a thing growing in between,
Dark and eerie, nothing more,
A blanket of needles on the floor.

Gone are the Goodia, the Correa, 
Heath, Tree Ferns and Grevillea,
Ragwort thrives on the outer fringe, 
Enough to make the farmer cringe.

They’re cutting down trees to plant more trees,
It don’t make sense until one sees,
Chainsaw, Log truck, Crane and Gantry,
Cutting down trees…commercially. 

I note the slope on Springsure’s Hill,
With rows of stumps and waiting till,
Scotch Thistle, Blackberry, sun and rain, 
Have Springsure’s Hill back green again.

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