FROM THE SCARP
The antlion waits trapped by its trap,
And the trapdoor spider lurks,
Eyes peering through the margin gap,
Near where the beetle works.
A golden ray of morning sun,
Peeps through the leaves to catch,
The lyre birds with hungry fun
As they the debris scratch
Nearby the quoll darts to the plank,
Where a blue tongue lizard feeds,
On food scraps by the water tank,
Where the forest edge recedes.
Nearby the cliff edge plunges down,
Through the eucalyptus trees,
Where the brush tailed wallaby from a sound,
Along the rocky ledges flees.
A path winds down below the rocks,
From where cool water seeps
Wherefrom the cockatoos in noisy flocks,
Wing through the misty weeps.
Green with moss great fallen logs,
wedged among the boulder stones,
lie shaded in the damp with frogs,
like great historic bones
At the end of rugged gorges, fall
cascades of silver streams,
where zephyrs whirl in sparkling squalls,
lit by translucent beams
Wild Dingoes roam the lower scarps
where the foothills meet the farms,
from where with morn the mist departs,
and rises through the palms.
Up through the higher rugged crests,
To enshroud the granite tors,
Where the Wedge Tail Eagle builds its nest,
And the mountain possum explores.
Far below where the rivers rise,
The cascade reaches spent,
Across the valleys the wailing cries,
Of the black cockatoos are sent.
And houses dot the river banks,
And cattle feed in herds,
As the morning sun warms their flanks,
And they lose their ticks to birds.
There comes the sounds of crowing fowl,
barking dogs and traffic noise,
the clank of pots and building trowel,
the farmers shouting voice.
Like streaming ants along the roads,
The cars and buses speed,
And jinkers with their timber loads,
the hungry mouths of mills do feed.
And as the city by the sea,
Comes to life in the morning light,
Another world that few do see,
Emerges from the night.
To form a distant glorious view,
A rugged mountain range,
That except for the real adventurous few
remains a mystery dark and strange.
