(header photographs by Harry Waite 1912-2011)

The Myth of the Sacred Brumby







After The Fire  

By beryl heather Coast & Mountain Walkers

From the Bushwalker magazine 1937

The sky is dull and overcast,
And though the clouds are high
We hope that there will be come rain
For all the creeks are dry.
’Tis six months now since last we heard
The laughter of the rills,
The happy rippling gurgling streams
That trickle down the hills.
Right down the vale the fires swept
A week ago to-day,
And now there’s just 8 blackened waste
Where once wall green and grey.
The birds and beasts in terror fled
Before the wall of flame
That hissed and roared relentlessly,
Destroying as it came.
The ferns and shrubs and flowers gay
That grew beneath the trees
Were swallowed by the ruthless rush
Of dame swept down the breeze.
And e’en the tallest strongest trees
Are black and badly charred,
For though they’re victors In the fight,
Their boles are burnt and scarred.
I felt that it would hurt to see
The bush so desolate,
’Twas just as though a much-loved friend
Bad met a dreadful fate.
I thought that f would stay away
Until we’d bed some rein,
I’d wait until the flowers grew,
And all be fair again.
But came a low insistent call
From hills and valleys bare,
A voice that celled for sympathy,
For love in its despair.
It urged me out to weep with it,
The sadness dulled my brain,
So how Could I desert a, friend
That called to me in paint
And do you know that as I walked
Along the track to-day,
J saw some tiny bright green shoots
Beside the blackened wept
It must have been the dew that fell
Between the eve and morn
That coaxed their heads above the sail
And bade them be reborn.