These are true stories - Dilladerri was
our 2nd property and I named it for the tall timber there as the rough
translation of that name is a place with a lot of tall timber. It
carries mainly cypress but also a lot of Ironbark and Box which we cut and
milled but very selectively. Just over 4000 acres with only the front 1000
acres ever cleared many years ago as it was originally a soldier’s settlement
block, out the back of Texas/Inglewood. Because it was so secluded and you had
to pass through 3 other properties to reach it - it was ideal for the Wildlife
Land Trust who bought it.http://www.wildlifelandtrust.org.au/ind... dilladerri
The property was originally known locally as Stone Fireplace as that was all that remained of an old hut built by Chinese prospectors who did have a gold mine on it. The old windlass was still over the shaft but there was no worthwhile gold there according to recent geological aerial surveys that were done. The area in its day did have gold taken from it but the discovery of rich gold fields in Gympie saw a rush of miners to that area and the gold fields throughout the Warwick, Stanthorpe and Inglewood areas were abandoned.
We had a caravan and a donga there and big machinery shed - bush style. It was a magical place. I wrote a lot of poetry about it – it was that kind of place – it moved one to write, sketch, or photograph it, and since writing was my thing – I did.
THE DILLADERRI TRYPTYCH
A PLACE TO HANG HIS HAT … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
‘twas miles away from nowhere but to somewhere was quite near,
a traprock block of shaly soil with history unclear.
That it was old was not in doubt - as old no doubt as time
and one time Chinese folk lived here – he’d found the old gold mine.
Along with stoppered bottles that now had opal sheen
and blackened kerosene tins where the ant-bed stove had been.
A pick head minus handle, plus a pan battered and worn,
a sluice for shale and gravel, which from upstream floods had torn.
A sudden shower of water, cold, had soaked him to the skin.
A drownpour unexpected, out of nowhere, caused a grin.
His Akubras brim poured water, in a steady downward stream
and mist rose o’er the paddock as hot soil turned rain to steam.
But everywhere around him there was beauty, there was peace
and up above two eagles soared. A skein of magpie geese
with honking cries were heading north in V formation, like
a well drilled air force squadron embarking out on a strike.
He thought this place would do quite well – a place to hang his hat.
His children’s children could run wild, unfettered and look at
the beauty nature offered in real life not on TV,
learn yesterdays old skills which he would teach them willingly.
He named it Dilladerri – from the language of the tribe
of Ancient ones who long ago in this place did reside.
A heavily timbered place was the translation of the name -
it was covered thick with cypress, good for timber not for grain.
And so it was – it came to pass –for a good while at least.
His hat hung on a hat rack in this place of blessed peace
until the winds came blowing through - his life to disarrange,
the land continued slumbering, oblivious to change.
POBBLEBONKING
… Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet
Out past the first dam, just
near the low hill
where the gums cast their
shadows, and evenings are still
‘mongst the reeds and the
rushes a sound can be heard
Bonk, plonk ,bonk,plonk - is it frog or a bird?
His voice so insistent it echoes
around
like a star picket being
hammered into ground,
the evening concert is all he’ll
attend,
my little star picket hammering
friend.
I think technically he’s a
Pobblebonk frog,
who hides in the mud or beneath
a damp log,
where he feasts on the insects
and grubs that abound
and hides very quickly if man
comes around.
Some say Eastern Banjo is
really his name
and like Banjo Paterson his
claim to fame,
are his faithful renditions,
delivered with spunk.
of a loud and explosive and
resonant bonk.
At night when you’re drifting
to sleep in the bush
you can hear my small mate in
the night’s silent hush
calling to his mates in a
demanding tone
‘I’m out here and bonking and
I’m all alone.’
But soon the dark night’s
serenaded with song.
There must be a hundred frogs
bonking along.
And one hears an occasional
sqwaaaaak as a snake
passes by and takes a frog as
his dinner mate.
So just listen quietly, relax,
close your eyes,
and be serenaded till morning’s
sunrise.
As you drift off to sleep to
the cacophony
of Pobblebonks bonking wherever
they be.
DILLADERRI DREAMING … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark
Poet
Somewhere out in the country,
somewhere out in the scrub
Is a block of land well hidden,
far removed from prying eyes.
Whilst the track you need to
find it, is rocky and quite rough
high above the wilderness the
eagle flies.
No stock is running on it,
unless you’re counting goat and pig.
In September when the wattle
blooms it fills you with surprise.
For it’s just a rough scrub
block, with Ironbark, Cyprus and wild Fig
but above this wilderness the
Eagle flies.
This is 'Dilladerri ' dreaming
in the warmth of summer sun
'neath a sky of azure blue and
mare tails white.
It waits in isolation on a road
where few do come
and holds a magic that enthrals
in mornings light.
In its solitary splendour it
has stood for many years,
where once bush was cleared it
now is overgrown.
The feeble efforts made by man
to tame its rampant growth
have been by nature mostly
overthrown.
Its creeks are all dried up
now; the water is long gone,
and in the manmade dams
remaining water's low.
Strata soil is now eroded, by
the harshness of the drought.
Up above the Eagle surveys all
below.
This is 'Dilladerri' dreaming
on a frosty winter morn
when a heavy mist is drifting
through the bush.
And a wallaby or two with a mob
of kangaroo
slowly graze on winter grasses
without rush.
When the rains eventually fall,
bringing greenness to it all
washing dust away from scrub,
and bush and tree.
Filling dams and filling
creeks, Spotted Marsh frog starts to speak
as earth regains her long lost
vitality.
Little rills, become a trickle,
joining up become a rush,
soon a brown and foamy torrent
starts to flow.
And the sight of so much water,
after years of drought or longer
is a wonder to behold, for
those who know.
This is 'Dilladerri ' dreaming,
as she’s once again reborn
as the water, precious water,
soothes her heart.
Now she’ll rise in all her
glory, no longer dry and careworn.
Joyful wedge-tail eagles soar a
skyward path.
No comments:
Post a Comment