Colin F. Jones
FROM THE SCARP
A golden ray of morning sun
Peeps through the leaves to catch;
The lyre birds with hungry fun
As they, the debris scratch
Nearby the quoll darts to the plank
Where a blue tongue lizard feeds
On food scraps by the water tank
Where the forest edge recedes.
Nearby the cliff edge plunges down
Through the eucalyptus trees
Where the brush tailed wallaby, from a sound,
Along the rocky ledges flees.
A path winds down below the rocks
From where cool water seeps
Where from the cockatoos in noisy flocks,
Wing through the misty weeps.
Green with moss great fallen logs,
Wedged among the boulder stones,
Lie shaded in the damp with frogs
Like great historic bones.
At the end of rugged gorges, fall
Cascades of silver streams,
Where zephyrs whirl in sparkling squalls
Lit by translucent beams
Wild Dingoes roam the lower scarps
Where the foothills meet the farms,
From where with morn the mist departs
And rises through the palms.
Up through the higher rugged crests
To enshroud the granite tors,
Where the Wedge-tailed eagle builds its nest,
And the mountain possum explores.
Far below where the rivers rise,
The cascade reaches spent,
Across the valleys the wailing cries
Of the black cockatoos are sent.
And houses dot the river banks,
And cattle feed in herds,
As the morning sun warms their flanks
And they lose their ticks to birds.
There come the sounds of crowing fowl,
Barking dogs, and traffic noise;
The clank of pots and building trowel,
The farmers shouting voice.
Like streaming ants along the roads,
The cars and buses speed,
And jinkers with their timber loads,
The hungry mouths of mills do feed
And as the city by the sea
Comes to life in the morning light,
Another world that few do see
Emerges from the night
To form a distant glorious view,
A rugged mountain range,
That except for the real adventurous few
Remains a mystery dark and strange.
©Copyright March 27, 2006 by Coin F. Jones