- The air is oppressive; there isnít a breeze...
- Youíre working a passageway Ďunder the treesí;
- By pushing the brush with your forearms and
- Through densely-packed thickets you manage to
- You emerge from the scrub through a Hakea
- And walk through a field full of sundew and
- Till you come to a platform that slopes to a
- To peer over the side of its vertical edge.
- And oh, what a sight for you scrub-scraping
- You hard men and women and bush-bashing
- To see how this cool little streamlet behaves
- With its sassafras shadows and under-cut
- There are coachwoods and vines in the theatre
- And mosses on slippery rock surfaces grow,
- Whilst fronds in the ferneries wave to and fro
- Over flowering orchids with names I donít
- Come gurgling through the canyonís underworld
- That reminded George Caley of ultimate doom,
- But donít queue in Claustral, thereís simply
no room -
- And whose are these bones, I wonder?
- Count Strzeleckiís, I presume.
- Go wander the labyrinths free of a rein:
- With Bushwalker Dave youíll go like a train,
- Youíll shout from the crags in the wind and
- For the hills are alive, I need not explain.
- Youíll look for the way down a Bob Buck pass
- Improbable enough to be labelled a farce;
- You follow it though, youíre as bold as all
- But if you think Max was Gentle... youíre not
in his class.