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LITTLE YABBA CREEK POETRY TRAIL POEMS

Pebbles                                                                

 
Thoughts and daydreams
skim like pebbles over the surface of consciousness.
I pick a smooth, clear, rounded one
and clasp it in the hand of my mind’s eye:
a pleasant memory
from days when peace abounded
and time was never-ending.
I let it go, to drop into
the deep well of forgetfulness.
 
Amid life’s wakeful, loud experience
I jostle again to fill the racing hours
with acts of meaning,
played out on a hilly stage.
Then boulders strew the path
intent on the destruction of my peace;
boulders of conflict, illness and deceit
appearing resolutely,
whatever the direction I may take.
Eventually, through wind and storm,
smoothed by the trickle of time,
the boulders shrink,
becoming only pebbles
in the landscape of the past.
 
© 2016            Deanne Lister


Pink Rocks
 
Dressed up in pink
modern and dancing
to the latest hit.
 
Swept on the music of time
water still running, sunlit.
 
A million years passed
as pink rocks gathered
at Little Yabba Creek.
 
She gathered one,
big enough to stop the door.
            memento meek
            of passing love.
 
 
© 2016            Deanne Lister


Tribute to Charlie Moreland                                
 
As one by one the settlers came,
clearing the land around,
the bunyas, beech and cedar fell,
stripping the tender ground.
 
Then Charlie came, a gentle man,
who loved the earth and trees,
and fought to save the forest
with unmitigated pleas.
 
While dairy herds were flourishing
the forest ranger stood
defending nature’s dignity
in valley, creek and wood.
 
And many were against him,
saw their vision disappear,
but the forest flourished fruitfully
because that man was here.
 
And now the Mary River runs
in tribute to his name,
while the ancient trees and the birds call out
to Charlie Moreland’s fame.
 
© 2016            Deanne Lister


traceable lines                        
 
finger-trace the lines
tactile … sensual
rough on smooth
 
what can they tell us
these coastal scribbly gums
about ourselves?
 
brush aside streeling bark
knuckle-knock solidity
feel the strength within
 
do mountain blackbutts
know about insecurity?
about fragility?
 
here buttressed figs share wisdom
with giant stinging trees
and flooded gums
 
trees know their place
from time immemorial
comfortable in their skins
 
sometimes I wonder--
do we have the substance
to present
traceable lines
to the world?
 
© 2016                   Judith Bandidt


Forest Breathing                            
 
What is this …
this quiet place
where peace pervades
forest floor to canopy--
seeing bushland raw
in roots and rocks
layers and lines
the building blocks of time.
 
We walk sequestered glades
of dappled shade
where feathered ferns
turn softly to the light.
 
Mossy logs lie wantonly
across a creek where
tumbled boulders
capture remnant pools.
Hidden spaces we find there
cool, secret places,
habitat envined.
 
Stop and listen--
not a sound
no birdsong
not even insect hum.
 
Stillness surrounds
forest giants
dreaming in the sun.
 
This …
this is where
we dare to lose ourselves
in the silence.
 
© 2016            Judith Bandidt
 

Little Yabba                                  
 
ancient giants
wrinkled knobbled noses
threw stinging barbs
shook regal crowns
above the canopy
disdained to look upon
the ground dwellers
 
but then we found
green space 
a circle of sky
gravelled creek
where children played
and bellbirds
 
oh yes
there were bellbirds
 
(written at Little Yabba Fig Tree walk,
and the Charlie Moreland camping ground May, 2016)
 
© 2016            Judith Bandidt


Every river has its story                                           
 
            A simple thing – flicker of water,
            pools still and cloudy, jungle green. Stroll
            over the bridge and merge with the trees.
 
            From first churning of light,
            that fleeting thing a river
            is set to race, rise, erase.
 
            An old story, the way a creek gathers itself,
            darkens, becomes a torrent, how shallows
            can deepen, currents begin to swirl.
 
            An old story, the heft of it, swell and swallow,
            undertow, riverbanks weakening,
            trees flailing, trying to hold firm,
 
            iron water creeping, spilling over the land.
            Wide water, no way of skirting it,
            the forest even further out of reach. 
           
            Still I choose this way,
            biding my time, hoping to cross
            still clinging to my stories.
 
© 2016            Lyn Browne


Heartfelt                                                                            
           
            Hiding in plain sight up there waving, waiting.
            No sound, no scent.  A tree to fear, a tree
            to remind us how frail we are.
 
            Dappled canopy fracturing light,
            heart-shaped leaves lifting a little, apple green,
            too thin, too soft to rustle, to give warning.
 
            'Gympie gympie' stinging tree,
            best handled with gloves. Welding gloves.
            Fruit like mulberries, pink and purple and yielding.
 
            This is walking on the wild side.
            Filaments silica tipped disperse, could penetrate.
            Look up.  Don't come close.  Don't speak.
 
            Maybe don't even breathe.
            Kick those shrivelled leaves aside, walk on.
            Remember any heart can hurt.
 
© 2016            Lyn Browne

Canopy
 
            At the edge of the forest
            the branches lift a little,
            a gentle scratching,
            curtain of foliage waving us in.
 
            Heads tilted back we strain
            for a view of the high tops,
            for that level that can't be reached,
            for leaves that might sting.
 
            We don't ask for heaven.
            Staring at the canopy is awe enough,
            the way the leaves shudder and tangle.
            We give in to the rattle.
           
            How small we are.
            It would be good to soar a little,
            glimpse the way the forest tilts
            towards the river.
 
            Instead we wander the board walk,
            marvel at buttresses, cat birds,
            the pattern of bark, berries, cones, wish
            we could fold ourselves into the green and let go.
 
© 2016            Lyn Browne


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