We have a list of folks we know, all written in a book

and every year at Christmas time we go and take a look.

and that is when we realise that names are just a part

not of the book they are written in, but of our very hearts.

the "greatest gift" is communicating with folks like you

therefore accept my sincere Chistmas Greetings and

those for a Prosperous New Year too. Cas, Bushpoet

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Just a thought . . . .

The daily round, be friendly - say the kindly word - to all the folk you meet; that solves the problem - how to live, and make life's journey sweet. For foe is friend, and friend is foe, just as our actions make them so . . . The friendly word, the cheerfull smile, the ever-helping hand, can make the daily round worthwhile and many joys command. For foe is friend, and friend is foe, just as our actions make them so

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WE ARE GIVEN ANOTHER CHANCE . . .
Now is the time of year of family and others we do think
of resolutions we made last year, it went in an eye blink
acknowledging it is a time of remembering our joys, grief
setting aside all hurtful things, maybe revive religious belief

The real meaning of the season, the fellowship we have had
family get-togethers, bringing joy to those who are sad
no better occasion, opportunity to care for one another
making effort to re-unite family, some will say why bother

From experience, all the unhappiness many of us know
loneliness, anquish, festering hatred, don't let it grow
many reasons compelling us from our lives we must erase
evaluating mistakes, in Spirit of Season, for a better place

Maybe adopt an orphan, visit stranger, offer some hope
visit a hospital, goal, help a charity, plenty of scope
think about those at sea, loved ones in lands by war torn
turning our lives around, stop those treating us with scorn

For all the world's woes, we'll never find a sure-fire cure
the less there is in oiur life, more pleasant it is to endure
we are given another chance . . . .don't let it slip by
if a year from now on we're no better off, at least we did try

Picture on left rock erosion on East Coast of Tasmania, called The Devil's kitchen. Picture on right wild Dingo as found on Fraser Island off coast of Queensland

THE STREAM OF LIFE . . .

Through many hours of happiness, laughter, stream of life flows

in reality, do we make the most of it before each day is done

it's so easy to pick up worries to gather woes on your way

don't give yours to others, who don't want them anyway

Stream of life flows on, in all hues, resulting in emotional pain

life's flowers will bloom again, fed by our tears, like the rain

doesn't do any good to withdraw from world, torn apart by fear

seek solace, strength, freely given by those who hold us dear

Upon life's stream let your wildest dreamboats freely glide

expecting no adverse winds, always sailing happily with the tide

some are cast-off for faraway ports, at the helm a pilot of hope

stormy, adverse seas, some get there, others barely cope

Twilight of youth, evening calm upon our own life's stream

maybe tomorrow, after restfull night, fullfilling hope, dream

forgetting we had a tumble, things coming right once again

shouldn't stop striving, motivation for higher things to attain

Live life to the full, there are many variants in life's stream

look to bright side, accept disappointments, false dreams

gather from the years that have been good, choose at will

don't dwell on ugly moments, life's stream you will imperil

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Gratitude is never so important as during those times when

everything seems to be lost

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A VALLEY SO REMOTE . . . .

Australia is full of hidden beautifull places, some no doubt will spring instantly to mind

having found your own , that's were you go to leave cares of today's world behind

a place of utter silence,peace, picture-book prettiness, unsurpassed anywhere else

Brindabella Valley, down arduos very steepprecitous winding track, seemingly no end

not for the faint hearted, one is rewarded with magnificient vistas round every bend

when finally reaching, after having closed last gate, crossed last river, valley floor

the magic happens, feeling of utter peace, never anywhere else has it happened before

Sounds of nature, wind singing in the trees, rippling sparse grass, distant crows call

old homestead, slab huts, rusting old machinery, on surrounding hills a waterfall

some buildings been, with much effort, carefully restored, to others a lot more to do

some horses, goats, chooks, sheep, peacefully grazing, here and there a kangaroo

What better way to start new day, up early, enjoy morning air, contemplate the overall

sunrise, cup of tea on verandah, easy chair, silence of nature, here and there birds call

no lack of hospitality, nothing is much effort by those who live here , day in, day out

taking you horse riding, hiking, go fly fishing in unspoilt river for some Rainbow Trout

There's the old suspension bridge across the river, ancient farming tools on slab hut wall

rusting carcasses of farm implements of old, slowly succumbing to nature's call

signs of Aboriginal presence of long ago, some caves in distant hills, secret sites

it has been said they came here to feast on Bogong Moths, socialise and hold tribal rites

A gunmetal glimmer of water betrays river's chilly path, tumbling gently over rocks

the valley enjoys still different seasons, distinctions of time of year nature here mocks

Brindavalley means different things to different people, it could be paradise or hell

there's more to explore, even to just escape the daily grind, to go again, time will tell

Freed from drought's tyranny . . .

Light of setting sun shimmers on sea of water surrounding homestead

after terrrible draught of years gone by, no ever better sight than that

originating weeks ago when in the Channel Country rain began to fall

giving courage and hope to carry on, making you walk very, very tall

The country for miles around was like an endless plain of red dust

daily life a struggle, for man and beast, in God they put their trust

dust blowing across country, low hardy scrubs, little vegetation

unbearable hot, riverbeds bone dry, not really fit for human habitation

Now, once again, life-giving water is slowly creeping across this land

like a huge carpet of glistening silver paper, it sure looks grand up front like a reddish blue, due to minerals being swept along

behind, where water has passed, vegetation a lush green, very strong

Cattle being herded in these trying times, to higher and safer ground

no matter which way one looked, there is life-giving water, all around

homesteads surrounded, like islands in this most welcome inland sea

people breathing sighs of relief, freed once again from drought's tyranny

The network of flooded channels resembling man-made mysterious maze

waterbirds noisely returning in their thousands to previous silent place

nature hibernating all these years, and once again being stirred awake

in doing so, more than enough, for man and beast, their thirst will slake

Soon the rhythm of life will return for the people of this harsh land

picking up thread of life, when, not long ago, it slipped from their hand

just another experience of life, during good times one is apt to forget

maybe after just this season could face once again the same threat

STRUGGLES ON THE LAND . . . .

Like a mirage, nothing unusual in this hot and dusty land

old farm buildings, rusting machinery, beyond repair

broken, rusted windmill, water tank, what's left of the stand

not hard to understand why no-one lives here anymore

gates half open, rusting wires marking outlines of fence

in this inhospitable, barren land, this makes no sense

in the past it must have been someone's paradise or hell

of what tragedies, promises, hardships, this scene does tell

windmill, in an agonising shape, form, outlined against sky

rusted, broken vanes, at many crazy angles, useless now

holed, rusted waterthrough, upon the dusty ground, bone-dry

in hand hewn rough shed, harvester, horse tackle, hand plough

pumping of water, that liquid essential gold, ceased long ago

there's not a living soul, human or animal, for miles to be seen

skeletons of cattle, sheep, sunbleached, in death's throes

any kind of vegetation, grass,dead, not a hint of green

a stark reminder to us all of men's struggles on this land

hopes, dreams, cruelly shattered, tomorrow better, maybe

the insignificance of it all, man taking unwinnable futile stand

nature, showing with all its might, how man had to finally flee

OUR GREATEST PRIDE . . .

When we first ever settled on our selection
there was no place for that well known reflection
the way we fixed it was to dig a very deep hole
enough to catch the winds from the Southpole

Took a bit of doing, it was inside a hollow tree
a sensible structure in the bush for a private privy
didn't need a door, you entered through a crack
a vision splendid, even better than from our shack

There was no roof, it was just open to the blue sky
old newspaper we did use, no fancy triple ply
there was, as yet, no seat, you had to stand or squat
practice gymnastics, to avoid the splat, splot, splat

At night, when visiting, many an unexplained bush noise
when you have to go, as you know, have to go, no choice
in winter, you most definitely had to rug up for the cold
in summer, no probleme, you could go starkers if bold

Eventually carpet, wall to wall, a seat, arm rests to boot
stereo surround music, frightening, television, what a hoot
now we finally got a septic tank, porcelain loo now inside
but that privy, in backyard, always will be our greatest pride

THE BUSHIE . . .

A whiskered old bushie lived up a bush track
his abode no more than a crude wooden shack
it was made of small logs, saplings, tin pieces
winter, bitterly cold, summer, full of hot breezes

The door swung precariously on rusted old hinges
to the bushie the squeaks were like some finches dirt floor, holes for windows, fireplace, didgeridoo
outside great variety of birds, mobs of kangaroo

It's place was carefully choosen, near an old deep soak
water for all his needs, symphony of bullfrogs' croak
pots, pans, billycan, holes in roof for plenty of light
sounds of the bush all around, his greatest delight

Bed, table, chair, made it himself out of wooden log his ever so faithfull companion, a mangy old dog
the walls inside lined with old newspaper, lime, daub
his trousers, held up, like his swag, with odd bits of rope

In old boots, with nary a sole, his feet with no socks
sun, moon, stars, he used them as his everlasting clock
there was many a story, full of compassion, he'd tell
about the bush and all the animals that therein dwell

His beard, long, grey, his vision no longer clear
fading memories of places he had been, held dear
all is quiet now, just the buzzing of many a bush fly
the bushie has gone to his resting place in the sky

His shack still stands today, almost frozen in time,
all covered over, like a tomdstone, in creeping vine
whenever you pass by, take a moment to reflect
about the bushie, his free lifestyle, to him was perfect

Kaleidoscope of Australia . . .

Shards of paperbark, high up in trees, after recent wet, stranded
like washing, hung out long time ago in Dreamtime, abandoned
brown stained water trickling in groove down granite rock face
a very violent act of nature, in distant past, must have taken place

Stringy plants, windblown pockets of soil, debris in clefts, cracks
surefooted rockwallabies, leaving few marks on precipitous tracks
then suddenly, coastal barriers of sand dunes, white as snow
encroaching on struggling vegetation, harsh environment to grow

Tiger snake, belly bulging with recent feed, basking in hot sun
rustles in sparse undergrowth, small animals on the run
round hole in granite rock face, water very deep, lichen on sides
on closer inspection, sea turtle coming to surface, incoming tides

Christmas spiders, patterns of yellow, black, orange, webs abound
goanna's, big and small, brilliant glorious colours, scurrying around
low slung cloud, divergent rays o f sunshine, heavy moist laden air
threatening rain cloud on horizon, never seems to go anywhere

Sea breeze rustling banksia seed cones, backed by chorus of birds
song of nature, treasured time warp, not always understood, heard
end of day darkness falls, Milky Way disects moonless sky, black void
computer controlled man-made rubbish in universe, being destroyed

In all it's harshness, mystique, ugliness, beauty, i the distant past
never been any different, always challenging, haunting, unsurpassed
and so the decades, centuries rolled on and on, the seasons in turn
some of our early explorers, there were places they too, did spurn

Unforgiving, beware, it can kill . . .

Under electric blue sky, streaked with whispy cirrus cloud, white
moving across sweeping brown endless plain, awesome sight
silvery saltbush, acacia, to barely discernible horizon far away
a formidable, hot vista, not a place for humans or animals to stay

Ground cover tightly packed pebbles, these are the Gibber plains
vegetation virtually non-existant, this place really crying for rains
wedge-tailed eagles engaged in disputed territorital aerial display
on ground a few kangaroos, in meagre shade, blistering hot day

A land stripped of all adornment, giving Gibber Plain it's allure
mean, unencumbered, mostly dry, hot, this is elementary nature
this mighty landscape has a harsh, physical beauty, all it's own
even early explorers realised that here nothing could be grown

In some parts so-called "jump-ups", rising from the valley floor
odd erosion shaped remnants of mountains that where before
suddenly, sky opened, bolts of lightning, thunder, torrential rain
drowning valley floor, beginning of transformation to grassy plain

One can almost feel the sigh by plants, animals from heat relief
that once again, unexpectedly rain came to rescue, however brief
creatures, plants having adapted to conditions that are very harsh managing, somehow in dry seasons, when feed, water are scarse

Here is what is known as "Cameron Corner" by a simple survey post
the coming together of three States, NSW, SA, Queensland as host
it is also called "The Corner Country", west of Silver City, Broken Hill
a part of Australia, harsh, beautyfull, unforgiving, beware, it can kill

A BYGONE ERA . . .

Standing all forlorn in farmyard under shady tree

once pride of place in Australia's transport industry

rotting, rusting, half buried, wwel past their heyday

broken springs, torn seats, no wheels, total disarray

Horses, magnificient taems, proudly pulled us everywhere

decorated, on special occasions, a prize a Country Fair

clip clop, clip clop of hooves, chains almost singing

guide along by our masters, doing their bidding

We carried Royalty, the sick, the not well bred

milk, bread, necessities of life, even the dead

wheels made of wood, steel, solid rubber tyres

for use on bush tracks, through floods and quagmires

Many a time creaking, groaning, under too heavy a load

farmer's produce, wheat, wool, on track made for a goat

a coat of paint, carefull maintenance, replacing old wood

no more such loving care, now all reduced to rotting wood

Passenger coaches, mail vans, hearses, wagons, spinet

with horses up front, pure muscles, dripping with sweat

drivers sprouting colourful language, swish whip in hand

the memories, the part we played, pioneering this land

A few in Museums, lovingly restored, our glorified history

nostalgic reminder of our past, how it was and used to be

days of horse-drawn carriages, today impossible to compare

we rush around in motor cars, blissfully unaware, who cares?

BEYOND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS . . . .

When settlers of the colony of Sydney to the West gradually took up land
there was always an abrupt halt where solid walls of mountains began
much longer route was opened earlier to fulfill much wanted urgent need
however this consisted of steep gorges, making travel dangerous indeed

Steepness of terrain, impenetrable dense shrub, defeated explorers in past
if they could conquer these mountains, colony expanded to westward at last
when finally achieved, finding lush pastures, rivers, fresh flowing water
open scrubland, shallow soil, ideal for establishing dairy farms much later

Discoveries made of easely accessible deposits of sandstone, coal, peat
some still mined today, climate in winter, like mother England, little heat
grants of land Government controlled, no overcrowding, population explosion
very little clearing of land was allowed in shallow soil, fears of gradual erosion

Soon first settlers did arrive, building homesteads, very functional residences
around perimeters sowed their crops, kept chooks, grew vegetables for existence
compared to experiences of settling other parts of this land, was easy, no battle
in very short time and long hours had their dairy farms stocked with cattle

With coming of railways transported their produce to Sydney Town mart
refrigerated, a big improvement when it was done all by horse and cart
along the way small settlements started to appear, some survive till today
most of these exude old English charm,with ample unique places to stay

Our beautiful rivers getting less . . .

Slowly, surely, in Alpine Mountains melting mantle of snow

beginning of spring, summer, new lifecycle starting to show

like tears of joy sliding down granite sides, forming spring

spagnum marsh, gullies, that's where our mighty rivers begin

Progressing to larger soaks, skipping rocks, becoming juvenile

gathering speed, pausing in small billabong, rockpool for awhile

carrying nutrients, nourishing life along it's course and banks

animals of the bush, fish in river, birds and trees, giving thanks

Sustaining floodplains, billabongs, lakes, on journey to sea

here and there rapids, fragile environments, great diversity

some years it did extract, through floods, an awesome toll

those that did survive them will, when asked, vividly recall

On their tranquil waters paddlesteamers used to ply their trade

rivers main arteries of transport till better roads were made

a way of life, romance, camaderie on rivers has long since gone

water flows no longer free, stopped by what man has done

He built barriers, dams, all impounding water for irrigation

to generate electricity, made rivers slaves to urbanisation

a mere trickle now, as at beginning, some rivers at end are

man, in his ever greediness, is taking more than his share

Of a previously fast flowing river, that's now almost stalled

maybe, one day, he'll realise price of 'progress' as it is called

short term solutions to problems, the time bought, little effect

dying trees, lessening wildlife, salination, all thru gross neglect

A hidden treasure of the Macdonald Valley . . .

Most convicts on being emancipated, were granted sizeable parcels of land
such person, Price Morris, acquired along Hawksbury River, 50 acre grant
clearing it first of all to built cottage on hillside, pastures to raise cattle
despite some floods, droughts, fires, to sustain life was a constant battle

Cottage, when completed, was used as a place of Worship throughout year
as prominent Welsh Methodists had formed a close knit community here
in years to come they built the present day Methodist Church in the villlage
cottage was then used occasionally by declining worshippers of old age

Intended for burgeoning Sydney Town, they raised pigs, cattle, some sheep
using Hawkesbury River as transport highway, it was convenient, fast, cheap
the growing of vegetables was started on the slowly increasing cleared land
beginning building The Cottage, now carefully restored, were today it stand

The Cottage took quite a few years to build, important was land cultivation
materials not always available, sometimes needed very careful preparation
vertical slabs, hand hewn, wattle and daub walls, calico ceilings, shingle roof
whilst restoring of beautiful craftsmanship, with care, there was ample proof

The Cottage has a long verandah on the nothern side, overlooking the farm
there to relax, early morning, afternoon, admiring the beautiful valley's charm
functional kitchen, separated from sleeping quarters by traditional breeze-way
in those days functioning as air-conditioning, nothing has changed to this day

Taking many years to build, each room's progression displayed behind glass
look at it carefully, construction methods did change as the years did pass
once agaih occupying it's glorious, rightful and prominent place in history
within the Macdonald Valley and it's hardworking, albeit small community

Furnishings, highlighting Price Morris's generation, bedrooms and parlours
'shearers' single, iron 4-poster, queen-size brass bed, original wooden floors
at night you can gaze in awe at jet-black sky, millions of stars, Milky Way
without beginning, without end, silvery New Moon, ending again a perfect day

The surrounding areas offer myriad opportunity for a really relaxing stay
bush walking, bird watching, you can enjoy something different each day
visit The Great North Road, masterpiece of colonial engineering in past
then, when departing, did you wish that this sojourn hadn't gone so fast?