Snake trees inscribed
with lichen tales
trails that lead
to rosewood polished pools

The tangle-foot Fagus
falls from green to gold to red
here, are all the seasons
and rivers fed from way above

Currawong* scrapes his metallic song
along the rusted belt of sky
and through moss and scrub,
light on foot we fly

Bleached white trunks abound
an ancient rare trod ground
and the eyes of wombat holes
stare out the blinking earth

And finally, the river flows
quiet with all its thought wrung out

Look beyond the ridge line,
look: beyond the scree,
where great King Bill pines his love
and all the world can see,
the verdant lustre of this place
and how, it found the peace
in you and me.