ABPA — The Australian Bush Poets Association Inc.

Rivers

© David Judge

Winner, 2025 Victorian Written Bush Poetry Championship and Silver Brumby (Serious) Award, Man from Snowy River Festival, Corryong, Victoria.

In the summertime heat they were places to meet for relief from a sweltering day,
when the sun would beat down on our small outback town as it searingly went on its way.
From the time it arose ‘til that place where it goes when the stars and the moon reappear,
it would send down its rays on those long summer days that we knew would come year after year.

The Macquarie I knew where the river gums grew had a rope that we hung from a tree,
and although it was deep, the banks muddy and steep, it was fun we could all have for free.
And not too far downstream where the shallows would gleam on the ripples that ran to the shore,
we would sit in a pool that was shaded and cool to the sound of cicadas galore.

There were kids with their dogs, others just had their togs and a truck tube to go with the flow,
with no rudder or keel past the swamp hens and teal, we would float to the rapids below.
For those up for a ride, we would silently glide ‘til the turbulence tumbled and spun,
the old truck tube around to the rapturous sound of my mates and me having some fun.

Other kids who were there would all join in and share in the joys of that magical place,
and the river was where we became more aware of the values of freedom and space.
We were all under ten in those days way back then at the end of the Second World War,
and the things that we did as a young country kid can be taken for granted no more.

And The Bogan I knew had an old bridge or two for the cars and the trucks and the trains,
where the swallows would nest and the swaggies could rest as they wandered the far western plains.
And with ‘No’ on the sign we would throw in a line or be silly and jump in or dive,
which in hindsight today we can give thanks and say that a miracle kept us alive.

When the river was low we’d all know where to go to find yabbies, a catfish or eel,
and with no place to hide they’d be flipped to the side to be part of a riverside meal.
Over years we would learn that the rains would return to replenish that bountiful force,
which meandered its way to a place far away from the realms of its mountainous source.

Where the river was wide on the town’s ‘other side’, there were shanties of hessian and rust,
and the barefooted few of the dark kids I knew had a story we never discussed.
They were magic at sport and they had our support when we played against visiting teams,
but as mates in a game they were not quite the same when it came to fulfilling their dreams.

On The Darling near Bourke where my dad went to work there were steamships with paddles astern,
and the holds were all full of their cargo of wool and the timber they needed to burn.
When the river was low they had nowhere to go in an era when fleeces were gold,
so they’d wait for the rain to return once again when the clip could be shipped out and sold.

But those things we have done so The Darling won’t run sees the balance of nature implode,
where the fish are found dead and the wildlife has fled in their search for another abode.
But their search is in vain ‘til the rains come again to replenish those catchments I know,
where each habitat thrives when the flooding arrives and those rivers again start to flow.

With a darkening sky at the end of the dry as the countryside soaked up the rain,
it brought welcome relief with a long-held belief that the river would flow once again.
But as Hanrahan said in those words full of dread, there were times when the rain never stops,
causing rivers to flood and the towns turn to mud as the farmers were losing their crops.

To those riverside towns came the circus with clowns in a marquee I’d help to erect,
so I’d get in for free and be able to see what the patrons had come to expect.
I’d see elephants dance and some ponies would prance whilst the monkeys were doing their thing,
and the crowd would applaud while trapeze artists soared as the lions all leaped through a ring.

When we moved to the coast where the people would boast that The Hastings could never run dry,
with its fast tidal flows and the rains where it rose it was easy to understand why.
There were lakes and lagoons with their inlets and dunes where the sea birds were graceful in flight,
as they followed a mast or a fisherman’s cast to a bushy’s unfettered delight.

It was upstream we knew what the Chinaman grew that were ripening ready to eat,
and a fleet-footed team would float melons downstream where the catchers would haul in the treat.
It was dangerous fun and the Chinaman’s gun had a load of saltpetre and lead,
that he’d use if he found there were poachers around causing panic and pain as we fled.

Just a few years ago when I wanted to know where my forebears as convicts were sent,
I uncovered the graves of those mistreated slaves where a part of my life had been spent.
On a river the same as the College by name where I learned about what farmers do,
I became more aware of those First Fleeters there and the Hawkesbury River I knew.

And The Turon was where I had something to share with those miners whose names were the same,
who had struggled and strived since the day they arrived seeking refuge, a fortune and fame.
From the stories I’m told of that river of gold there were winners and losers alike,
and that frontier was bleak for the mild and the meek and the battlers in search of a strike.

There were places I went where the rivers there meant that I needed to have four-wheel-drive,
with a snorkel and winch, any trips were a cinch and I knew that I’d always survive.
But as doom would decree for my kindred and me there are times when the gods intervene,
to remind us of why we should never deny there are forces of fate unforeseen.

Driving north to The Cape we all made our escape as The Bloomfield enveloped our Ford,
which had spluttered and died with the incoming tide past a sign that the driver ignored.
On a causeway of rocks past that warning of crocs, we were able to winch the Ford free,
and my children still speak of that dangerous creek and recount that the driver was me.

On a trip to The Rock I tried hard to unlock the mystique of that reverent place,
to become more aware of the things we can share with a culture we should all embrace.
It was spinifex dry with a cloudless blue sky and I wondered how nature survived,
but the water was there if you understood where it had flowed before Adam arrived.

For those rivers that flow out of sight and below ancient causeways of ochre-red sand,
are where few people go and as most of us know, there’s an aura we don’t understand.
There the ghost gums survive and the wallabies thrive on a landscape that’s rugged and raw,
and its rare ancient art is an integral part of a Nation we cannot ignore.

As the decades go by I keep wondering why we abuse those resources we need,
that the Earth has supplied to sustain and provide for the billions we now need to feed.
For a country so vast that is changing so fast with the climatic changes we see,
how we value the few of those rivers I knew will decide what our future will be.


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