The Black Trevethans

[warooa]

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.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Oh my! You've really pulled out the stops with this one Marty - it is delightful - I love it. Well done

[Heather]

Wow Marty. There is so much in that poem I don't know where to start. I'll have to read it a few more times I think before commenting

Heather

[Cropduster]

A stunning example of how it is done.

I do not have the superlatives to do justice to a comment.

Thanks Marty

[warooa]

Thanks Matt, Maureen, Heather and Allan . . . it's the valley where I live which is a beautiful place, but there is a darker side to it from a long time ago.

Cheers, Marty

[Heather]

Marty you've really outdone yourself with this one, it's magnificent! I almost can't get past "wow" - almost. It is chock full of spine tingling dark intrigue, foreboding and mystery which gathers momentum through the poem. I'll be having nightmares for a week now!

Heather

[alongtimegone]

All of the above Marty and stone the crows mate ... the vocab. ... you had me reaching for the dictionary. You don't write many but when you do hubba dubba ding dong and I don't know what that means either.
Wazza

[Catherine Lee]

Marty, this is an amazing poem and one you should be really proud of! It grabs you from the very first stanza and holds you in its grip the whole way through. All you can think upon reading it is 'Wow'! It captures such clear images and is so atmospheric - goosebumps and wow factor in spades. Congratulations on an exceptional piece of work!

[Heather]

Poem of the year and it's only February

[Heather]

March. It's March.