Lines, hues, crooks and curves
Silhouettes and sentinels of horizons
Swept into Mother Nature’s apron
Caressed and caressing the Inland
Open Blue
A child’s dream of endless roller coaster
Rides into wistful, summer hazes
And Clouds of infinite demeanour
Suckling the breast of Tuggeranong Hill.
And should we weep when you
Wear your skirt
Of mournful Winter fog ? Or crowned
Heavily with the burden
Of your Mother’s first Winter snows ?
Or perhaps lament
Your veil of lush, Spring grasses, which
Lie parched and despondent,
Beguilled by relentless Westerly Winds ?
No ! Tomorrow you will change
Chameleon of Gifts !
Tears shed, lost forever, are simply
Needless concerns No…
For Tomorrow, you will again shed
Your Life before us
Calling us to wonder
At your Lines, your hues,
Your crooks and curves
Our Brindabella Baby

I used to live in Canberra, in the Australian Capital Territory. My house was at the foot of Tuggeranong Hill, and one morning I rose to see that clouds had descended upon it in the most dramatic of fashions.