(header photographs by Harry Waite 1912-2011)

The Myth of the Sacred Brumby






Dot and Colin Smith
From "Sing with the Wind"
Published by 'Envirobook' 1989

To My Son
Not For Me

  (On his fourth birthday)

I pay that you will love the things I love,
That ferns may greet you, wet with dew,
When rising, Sol, his heavenly rays shall play
On virgin bushlands where you choose to rove.
I pray that golden noon may find you resting where
the scent of wildflowers fills the air,
And after, mellow afternoon,
When sunlight's shafts the grassy ridges gild
And bushbirds with their glorious songs the
mountain glens have filled
I pray you find in nature's realm your sacred grove,
Your golden bough the wattle's blazoned branch,
Azurean skies for your cathedral's roof,
Your priestly music, tempests in the trees.
For incense, gum leaves burning on the fire
That cooks your evening meal,
Ere, tired, you take for bed
The earth, your room a sylvan glade,
The stars for canopy.
Colin Smith
"The Bushwalker" No. 8 1945
Commend me to those silly B's
Who walk when they could be at ease
And stumble through a rough bush track
With heavy boots and aching back,
And when their stomachs hit their backs
They pause and ease off heavy packs,
There's no food steaming on the table -
They cook their own if they are able -
Oh give me lots and lots of ease
And nice soft beds to lay in, please.
The hard bush track I'll never roam,
For me the comforts of a home.
Dot Smith