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Along the road called forestry, the silver ash weeps over me
as I meander 'round the dell and glade.
Pass scars of sand pits long disused, where gullies, washes speak ‘abused!’
Reclamation offers now a new facade.
Need for powers cut an ugly door. The pylon gash is just before,
undergrowth’s boronia's heavy scent.
I stopped to suck the beauty in. So strong did the odour cling,
and stayed with me wherever that I went.
There along one mountain side, 'mid granite boulders there, they hide,
the grass trees, what as ‘black boys’ we all call,
from here the winding road is bleak, where waters in Tin Creek,
through steep and slippery valleys quickly fall.
The Ryson’s Creek below the road, through paper bark gently flowed,
before water gathered back into one stream,
'tis where I hear the lyrebird mutter, and then wings begin to flutter.
To see the dance upon the mound is but a dream.
I came across the tramline barrier, where a twenty bullock carrier,
hauled messmate logs down to Fraser’s siding.
There's the sawdust heap here still, where the ghosts of Proctors mill,
amongst the re-growth lay dormant, hiding.
Brighton grammars rural college, nestles peacefully with knowledge,
city folk come close to nature if they try.
The grounds are well prepared, with dugouts if bush fire flared,
beside Ryson’s creek that’s flowing closely by.
Mount Gentle Annie is the king. Seven-Acre Rock sees everything,
above the rolling hills of forest down below.
King parrots red and green, fly over firetails seldom seen,
where the tallest tree ferns seem to grow.
'Tis where the Bunyip river’s break, dividing with the dank ‘Black Snake’,
screeching mountain lories quickly flew,
where standing out to some extent, was the mint bush badly bent,
from weight of flower mixed with mountain dew.
Bauri thick along roads edge gives the impression of a hedge,
where tracks of wombats can be clearly seen,
it is only further up ahead, where a wombat’s lying dead,
in daylight proves to me a wombat‘s been.
Then there's that rutted windy track, in the forest further back,
beside a channel draining water to the city,
where a wallaby near dark, upon the road becomes so stark.
To destroy him with my car would be a pity.
Lower where the land is clear, fence line divides the forest near,
so a bandicoot and wood duck share a plot.
With its defensive manner, the hiss of a wild goanna!
My interpretation is 'I better not!'
The Diamond’s flowing water clear, stopped me to ponder here,
then see an eel sway across the sand!
I could imagine my float bobbing. I spoke to a yellow robin.
A companion through the bush for any man.
I see the ferny maidenhair, drooping from the bank o'er where,
is shaded by sword grass, which everyone despises.
There's the deep alluring sight, always-looking black as night,
where promise of a blackfish quickly rises.
So, alone I'm quietly wishing, that I'm back out here fishing,
where the charcoal burner once gave off a glow.
Where I would flush the bronze-wing, or hear a golden whistler sing,
with my line below a log amongst the flow.
Those pleasant hours that it took, to drive me back to Gembrook,
brought many pleasant memories back alive,
when I walked and fished for hours, through blanket bush and banksia flowers …
these days it's now a Bunyip forest drive.
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