The Black Trevethans
Posted: Sun Mar 01, 2015 7:58 pm
In The Shadows of The Trevethans
©Martin Pattie 2015
In the shadows of The Trevethans a solo Brolga dances,
amidst a warm renaissance she seems to search for answers;
a calling from the Malaleuca blossoms in the wind,
a call from Gods ethereal – a calling to rescind.
And the thunder heads that form above the Tableland loom large,
as forks of grounded lightning fire an incandescent charge.
As acres scarred by jaded dreams; they fall back to the fold,
a testament to savagery that blew in from the cold.
In the shadows of The Trevethans, where Candlenuts abound
there’s scattered graves of pioneers that never will be found.
Those calluses of progress healed beneath the Milky Pines
as Ironwoods wear cicatrices draped by Dodder Vines
The Torresian Imperials flit fast across the black
as deep below, the jungle swallows bones of a Kanak.
And somewhere there Yalanji spirits sing and dream and wail
amidst the cold escarpments and a long forgotten tale.
In the shadows of The Trevethans the regrowth breathes and sighs
and the canopy encloses all the sins and long lived lies.
The roots caress the granite and entomb the ancient rock
as secrets seep through crevices that never will unlock.
As the Drongos sing a tune but in a spangled minor key,
the Nightjars add staccato shots like axe rings on a tree,
the epiphytic Mistletoes suck life from eucalypts,
as stories on the time lines run out untrue to the scripts.
And the shadows from The Trevethans grow longer by the years,
and storm clouds fill the valley as the sunlight disappears.
The mountain spurs are drowned out with cicada’s raucous squeals
above the smothered remnants of some rusted Pelton wheels.
And a dingo’s wail is heard somewhere along Mungumby Creek,
that trickles off The Trevethans where Nankeen Herons shriek.
And tacit valedictions vale the valley in the night
as circles slowly turn that take the solemn sins from sight.
In the shadows of The Trevethans a bushman softly weeps,
for somewhere in that diaspora, someone . . . somewhere sleeps.
The sad, laconic angels of The Trevethans lay still,
as fragments of an underbelly stir and writhe at will.
But that sleep is just anachronistic; barely does it stir,
it more encroaches deep within the cudgels that once were
and fires a sortie to the stars – a forlorn scream of pain
as leaf molt envelopes the heavy embers that remain
And The Trevethans caress the past; sepulturise the now
as life prevails and somewhere there’s a melancholic vow.
A vow that taints the land and leaves a pained tinnitus hum
and haunts the valley with a shroud for who or what may come.
©Martin Pattie 2015
In the shadows of The Trevethans a solo Brolga dances,
amidst a warm renaissance she seems to search for answers;
a calling from the Malaleuca blossoms in the wind,
a call from Gods ethereal – a calling to rescind.
And the thunder heads that form above the Tableland loom large,
as forks of grounded lightning fire an incandescent charge.
As acres scarred by jaded dreams; they fall back to the fold,
a testament to savagery that blew in from the cold.
In the shadows of The Trevethans, where Candlenuts abound
there’s scattered graves of pioneers that never will be found.
Those calluses of progress healed beneath the Milky Pines
as Ironwoods wear cicatrices draped by Dodder Vines
The Torresian Imperials flit fast across the black
as deep below, the jungle swallows bones of a Kanak.
And somewhere there Yalanji spirits sing and dream and wail
amidst the cold escarpments and a long forgotten tale.
In the shadows of The Trevethans the regrowth breathes and sighs
and the canopy encloses all the sins and long lived lies.
The roots caress the granite and entomb the ancient rock
as secrets seep through crevices that never will unlock.
As the Drongos sing a tune but in a spangled minor key,
the Nightjars add staccato shots like axe rings on a tree,
the epiphytic Mistletoes suck life from eucalypts,
as stories on the time lines run out untrue to the scripts.
And the shadows from The Trevethans grow longer by the years,
and storm clouds fill the valley as the sunlight disappears.
The mountain spurs are drowned out with cicada’s raucous squeals
above the smothered remnants of some rusted Pelton wheels.
And a dingo’s wail is heard somewhere along Mungumby Creek,
that trickles off The Trevethans where Nankeen Herons shriek.
And tacit valedictions vale the valley in the night
as circles slowly turn that take the solemn sins from sight.
In the shadows of The Trevethans a bushman softly weeps,
for somewhere in that diaspora, someone . . . somewhere sleeps.
The sad, laconic angels of The Trevethans lay still,
as fragments of an underbelly stir and writhe at will.
But that sleep is just anachronistic; barely does it stir,
it more encroaches deep within the cudgels that once were
and fires a sortie to the stars – a forlorn scream of pain
as leaf molt envelopes the heavy embers that remain
And The Trevethans caress the past; sepulturise the now
as life prevails and somewhere there’s a melancholic vow.
A vow that taints the land and leaves a pained tinnitus hum
and haunts the valley with a shroud for who or what may come.
March. It's March.