Poetry

©Sentinels of the River
( Eucalyptus camaldulensis – River Red Gum)

Twisted mottled like exploding white paint, limbs amass in a thorny crown,
Marked with brown ochre and grey dribbling down.
Bodies' large and straight yet twisted inside, rough and scaly brown.
Broken some stand, with open wounds which nature slowly heals.
Olive green veils hang sparkling in the sun's setting rays.
In shadow they droop over dull grey limbs and hangs like unkempt hair.
Like stooped old men, the sentinels' gesture down towards the black yet shiny water they appear to protect.
The setting sunlight pales on their figured trunks and shadows darken across each white arm.
Soon unseen they will play with nocturnal friends and others of the night.
Through the velvet black of night, a cloak of dank damp vapour envelops each.

Dawn brings wakening and processes start.

A jumble of synthesized cells, begin to draw moisture from root driven wells below.
Nearby a silvery dark rippling highway of liquid gold glides by.
A femoral artery, systemic lifeblood flowing through an ecological concord.
Goulburn by name, a long time friend; an accomplice on nature's battleground.
A symbiotic liaison, a life for a life.
The sentinels stand and salute the bypassing parade and ensure its continuance.

©Poem & photography by Chris D

©Mimics of the Dindi

On a crisp and bright spring sunlit morn out Yellowdindi way,
When soft wisps of mist still hang since the dawning of the day.
If you stand quite still and listen, when it’s calm and still (not windy),

You’ll hear a chorus of the bush, from the Mimics of the Dindi.

From the deep and fern lined gullies where the bushly maestro’s sing,
Many forest voices clear and shrill cross ash clad ridges ring.
The kookaburra, the thrush, the wren, the currawong and jay,
Can each be heard, renditions true, from the mimics as they play.

Ash tall and white with ribboned bark reach up to touch the sky,
Around their feet an entwined mass damp Tanglefoot plants lie.
Where ferns bow down in damp cool glades on a stage of dirt scratched clean,
The mimics sing, perform and dance a stage show seldom seen.

Artists great, regalia grand they dance 'neath feathered lyres,
The songs they sing, each dance performed, each copied voice inspires,
And those who pass and catch a note or hear a bush voice strong,
Will feel the strength and character of the performers sing along.

Most city folk who take a break from their concrete jungle hell,
Find souls are calmed and minds are cleared by each Yellowdindi smell.
They marvel at the different birds whose voices they each hear,
Never dreaming that each voice comes from a mimic without peer.

So, in early morn when next you're out down Yellowdindi way,
Where tall Mountain Ash reach for the sky and bush folk all do play.
When the sun shines bright, the air is crisp and it's calm and still (not windy),
Hear the songs, the voices forged by the Mimics of the Dindi.

©Poem by Chris D