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Greenaissance® Concepts

 

This page is for Australian Bushwalker Poetry , the Poems are about the Australian bush as seen through the eyes of  Aussie Bushwalkers. 

Tribute to Dorothy Butler - click here

The Final Stride
At last I reached the summit cairn, but in that final stride
I realised that tragically two faithful friends had died.
 
Reminded then that life is short, and death one cannot cheat,
I sorrowed for my volleys lying shredded at my feet:
 These Volly's belong to Steve Tremont after a walk in the Flinder's Ranges
They’d crossed their final frontier, they’d made their final push
Those warriors of the wilderness, foot sloggers of the bush.
 
The sadness welled within me, beside that survey mast
Wandering the memories, remembering the past: 
 
Of hunting canyon-monsters in canyons dark and deep,
They’d bashed and bruised and crashed and cruised their way down Crikey Creek;
 
And never hesitating to do what asked to do
They bravely strode The Moko, and Bunggal-ooloo too;
   
They’d suffered horrors on Bolworra’s scrub-infested spines
And lingered longer in Kolonga’s narrow intestines;
 
They’d crossed The Devil’s Wilderness (George Caley’s old domain)
Then battled Barranbali, bombarded by the rain;
 
Had conquered high Guouogang by way of Nooroo Rocks,
And bungled Krungle Bungle on the way down to the Cox;
 
They’d brought me over Broken Rock and steered me down the steeps
To peekaboo inside the pit wherein The Pooken sleeps;
 
They’d crunched the broken country, expecting no rewards,
Where Wolobrai and Wollemi and Wirraba are lords;
 
To Tayan and Pantoney’s, the list goes on and on:
They got me to the distant peaks that I have stood upon.
 
No matter what conditions – desert dry or damp,
Those Dunlop volleys always took me safely to each camp,
 
But now their soles had parted, beside the old trig post,
Their uppers having ultimately given up the ghost,
 
And all that lay before them then, the wild horizon scanned
For that bushwalking Elysium, the fabled Promised Land.
 
I know they’re gone forever now, I know that they are dead,
Though always in my mind I’ll wear  the memory of their tread;
 
For maybe I’m imagining the wind that so deceives
Or could it be their ghostly steps a-rustling through the leaves?
 
 
Colin Paul Gibson Dec 1993 and August 1997
 
 
 
The Thorny Hand
 
There’s a gully in the ranges, in the far-off Northern Blues -
The kind that you imagine one would effortlessly cruise;
To trace it top to bottom should be quite a simple feat,
For the contours don’t look awesome on the topographic sheet;
You’d expect to make good progress and be down in half a day
With time to sniff the orchid blooms that decorate the way:
But I'd have to disappoint you, the reality’s more bleak
For anyone descending into Thorny Hand Creek.
 
You’d begin enthusiastically, and mutter "It’s a breeze..."
Until, that is, you’re collared by the creeper in the trees
As it sinks its vicious hooks in you, "Oh, bloody hell!" you crow,
It’s the kind of organism when attached will not let go;
Then once The Hand has got you in its unrelenting grip
It loves nothing more than having something fleshy it can rip.
When it dawns on you there’s no escape, believe me you will shriek;
You’ll wish you were a million miles from Thorny Hand Creek.
 
You realise the fact that you must face the claws alone,
And well within an hour you’re reduced to blood and bone;
You struggle on pathetically, your temper on the boil
As bits of you are left behind to fertilise the soil.
The sorrow you will suffer one can only understand
When one is in the clutches of the dreaded Thorny Hand,
For the skin will leave your fingers and blood will smear your cheek
If inadvertently you enter Thorny Hand Creek.
 
You started out a rational and cheerful human being,
But no-one now who saw you would believe what they were seeing- A terror-stricken animal, the prey of barb and thorn,
Till every single part of you is either pierced or torn.
A thousand times you wrestle from the Thorny Hand’s embrace
As sweat inflames the many lacerations on your face;
The rest is far too hideous for anyone to speak,
Just pray you’ll never stumble into Thorny Hand Creek.
 
from "A Wild Blue Wander" by Colin Paul Gibson 
published by Greenaissance 2000

 

He has just published his latest book consisting of  about 30  poems many illustrated with sketches by Lloyd Jones. If you would like to see more of his work click here

 

All rights reserved. No part of these poems or illustrations may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. 
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