Last issue I asked for poems to supplement the historical collection. I’m delighted to report a response from one of our members.
‘These have I loved…’
Bold mountains oranged by a virgin sun
with calling currawongs still dark as night.
Swift water spilling down by rocky paths; run
as it will, it cannot race the light.
Fragrance of bushland after showers,
soft scarves of mist around peak’s rugged brow
rare winter orchids, bright native flowers
and Koori paintings, faint as wind that soughs
like voices out of range. Loud needle points of rain,
groaning of frogs as evening steals the light,
kangaroos carrying young down to the plain
and kookaburras raucous morning flight.
Meeting with strangers, whose conversation shows
They also care about this land of ours.
Jean Sietzema-Dickson