"Where is the Boomerang Hotel?" they asked with eyes awide,
"We've never seen it advertised in any tourist guide.

"We've travelled through this country, we've trekked from coast to coast
We've crossed the desert Sturt explored, we've seen McGinty's ghost.

"While camping near the Cawnpore Hills we saw the Min Min light -
So eerie and uncanny as it faded in the night.

"We've searched for gold and sieved for gems in ancient river beds,
Where Nature's fervid turbulence with fiery beauty weds.

"We've fished for barramundi in the Gulf and at the Cape,
We've seen the town of Cowra where the prisoners made escape.

"We've been to Uluru, the Olgas, sailed across Bass Strait
Where gruesome tales are told of how the convicts met their fate.

"We've crossed the plain called Nullabor, we've visited Lake Eyre
Where bird life after flooding rains leaves nothing to compare.

"We've seen the billabong of which The Banjo wrote the words
That waltzed Matilda round the Globe, by which our souls are stirred.

"Rain forests of North Queensland where the leeches sucked our blood,
To remote, western properties of brahman cattle stud.

"The gorges of the Kimberley, the pearling town of Broome
Whose azure waters cover depths where divers met their doom.

"But all throughout our travels 'neath Australia's Southern Cross
The Boomerang Hotel, my friend, we've never come across."

"The Boomerang Hotel," I said, "is easy to locate,
You'll find it just where'er you want in any Aussie State.

"My Boomerang Hotel is by a western waterhole
Whose beauty and serenity quite captivate my soul.

"Where river gums caress the land, where vibrant bird life teems,
Where each shade of the sunrise on the water softly gleams.

"Where I can pitch my tent and watch a pelican swim by,
Where I can boil my billy and catch fish with bait or fly.

"This fav'rite spot of mine with which I have a love affair
I call my Boomerang Hotel and keep returning there.

"It's where I'd like to end my days, from city stress afar,
To camp amongst the river gums and native coolibah.

"To ponder on this ancient land where Time has cast its spell –
Yes, here beside this waterhole's my Boomerang Hotel."













MAGIC OF THE MURRAY

I lazed on the deck of "Proud Mary" astern
Observing the gulls swooping low,
Each hoping to catch from the paddlewheel’s churn
A fish coming up from below.

The high sandstone cliffs which flood waters erode,
So pockmarked and scarred over time;
Small hollows and clefts, the corellas’ abode;
Sea fossils encased in the lime.

The pelican gracefully swims on downstream,
Past the shag on the old tree root,
A cockatoo calls with its loud raucous scream,
The whistling kite, kestrel and coot.

Tall red river gum trees, how well they compare;
They’ve seen generations pass by:
Explorers like Sturt, McDowell Stuart and Eyre –
What tales they could tell you and I:

Of proud river boats, those lost legends of steam,
With wool bales for Adelaide Port;
They plied this great river, they lived out a dream,
And helped build a future from nought.

Some trees bear the mark where a native canoe
Was hewn from the bark with great care.
Such primitive tools, yet the black people knew
To balance, preserve and to share.

Some seasons the river would rush, gouge and mock –
Such heights the flood waters attained;
Invading the plainland, destroying the stock:
A cleansing which nature ordained.

The wheels of time turned bringing drought and despair,
When trade on the river stood still:
But neither calamity ever laid bare
The pioneer spirit and will.

The Murray for me held a magical balm,
Conveying a picture serene:
This piece of Australia, its beauty and charm.
I’m proud I could share in the dream.










COOPER CREEK MUSINGS

I sit on the banks of the Cooper,
Watch Lionel his fishing rod cast;
The whistling kites tune with the parrots,
A pelican swims slowly past.

A red river gum towers above me,
Corellas in crevassed boughs nest;
Here demands of the city can’t reach me,
Life’s peaceful, unhurried, unstressed.

The herons and spoonbills are wary
While searching the reeds for their food;
Galahs screech a colourful chorus,
A duck glides downstream with her brood.

This picturesque scene breathes its magic,
To be elsewhere I would not wish;
Then abruptly this soft spell is shattered:
“Bring the bucket, I’ve just caught a fish!”

TAMBORINE

(Acrostic)

Tracks through the bushland dense and wild,

Air borne from seaward crisp and mild,

Mist swirls amidst the trees from where

Bird songs diffuse the morning air.

On ridge tops houses overlook

Rainforests hiding bird and brook.

In soil volcanic rich and red

Neat flower rows and vegies bed.

Each facet here depicts a scene....

At Tamborine

PRIDE OF AUSTRALIA

The pride of Australia surges my veins
when I see the Outback awash after rains;
when droughts have been broken, the future is bright;
suspended life flourishes, seeking the light.

When I see the desert alive and in bloom -
bright tapestries woven on Nature's rich loom -
I'm proud to be part of this picturesque land
with high mountain ranges and white coastal sand.

The great inland rivers which flood and retreat,
the salt lakes which shimmer false hope and deceit;
stark pillars of limestone alluringly weird,
wild places the natives esteemed and revered.

I thrill as I tramp through deep gorges which hide
rare ferns in moist crevices where sunbeams glide;
where underground springs blithely bubble and squirt
their crystal clear waters in musical spurt.

The rugged escarpments and ironstone reefs -
a country cocooned in strange myths and beliefs;
the echoes of rumbling volcanoes I heed
to herald the legends which Dreamtime decreed.

The pride of Australia surges my veins
pulsating a chorus of earnest refrains:
this land 'neath the cross of the great Southern skies
to symbols of beauty and strength testifies.













WITHIN THE WALLS

'Midst the solitude and silence of the ancient valley floor
We sat mesmerised by Grandeur's picture book;
We were guests at Nature's banquet where each course bore fresh delights,
As of Her untarnished beauty we partook.

We had walked through Herod's Gate from where we viewed the mountain peaks,
Aptly autographed Walls of Jerusalem;
Here such names as Lake Salome, The Temple, Zion, Solomon,
Harmonised in praise of this rare diadem.

Sunlit sparkling waters of the tarns fed by the bubbling streams
In their thousands spoke of Ice Age residue;
In this pristine alpine wilderness where pencil pines prevailed
Inhibitions fled and goals were shaped anew.

Still today we can transport our minds to sit upon the heath
And relive that time we trekked through Herod's Gate;
The mystique and charming beauty never forfeit their appeal:
Constant calls which through our souls reverberate.










RAVENSWOOD

Abandoned houses clothed in vines,
Shop windows boarded closed,
Old stampers, boilers, chimney stacks:
A mining town reposed.

The fruit hangs rotting on the trees –
A flying-fox’s feast.
The weeds grow tall around the graves
Of pioneers deceased.

I sat atop a mullock heap,
My mind an open door.
I heard the stampers crushing rock,
Extracting golden ore.

I saw the miners trudge to town,
Exchange their gold for cash.
Some lost it in the 2-up den:
A gamble wild and rash.

Still others squandered fortunes in
Hotels and seedy bars;
But few made good their golden dreams
In reaching for the stars.

I saw the weary line of men,
A swag slung on each back;
The gold had petered out, so they
Took once more to “the track”.

Those heady days of Ravenswood
Are part of folklore now
As round the campfires in the bush
The tales are told of how

The miners and the squatters all
Were able to withstand
The floods and fires and hardships as
They pioneered the land.










THE OLD ENAMEL MUG

While camped at Old Cork Station where the Diamantina flows,
I walked along a barren ridge where burr of copper grows.

I sighted emu tracks not far from where wild pigs had dug,
Then saw beneath a coolibah an old enamel mug.

Though chipped and bent, its handle gone, it struck a chord with me;
I wondered who had used it last beneath this old gum tree.

Perhaps a drover rested, boiled his billy ’neath the stars;
His mob no doubt was destined for the distant abattoirs.

Or could it be a swagman who, down on his luck, had tried
For work at Old Cork Station which to him had been denied?

Maybe someone in search of gold prospected here in vain,
And made himself a mug of tea which helped to ease his pain.

Maybe two lovers shared this mug as secretly they kissed,
And, fleeing, dropped it when exposed at their idyllic tryst.

Or from an Afghan's saddle bag maybe unseen it fell
As with his camel team he bravely fought the desert's spell.

Like prickly copper burr such thoughts assailed my mind and fired
A picture book of episodes which maybe had transpired.

The mug’s now on my desk where I can look at it and dream,
Conjecture where it came from , envisage every theme.










COUNTRY CABIN

‘Neath the iron barks tall and the cypress pines,
Near the old billabong where the creek entwines,
Was my country cabin well screened from view,
Down the winding bush track by the barbecue.
Though but 16 feet on the square it lay,
It sufficed as my holiday hideaway.

In the early morn I’d awake to hear
An harmonious chorus of birds so clear:
Cheeky magpie, butcher bird and galah,
Kookaburra whose laugh echoed near and far.
While a kangaroo chewed on fresh grass shoots,
Father emu and chicks scratched round old tree roots.

All was hushed and still at the noontime hour,
Locking Nature’s turbines onto stand-by power.
A few hours passed by, the soft zephyr blew,
As it called all bush creatures to rendezvous
At the billabong ‘neath the shady trees,
E’er dispersing to safe night-time sanctuaries.

As the velvet sky overtook the blue,
I would sit by the fire, there to boil a brew;
With no city smog to hinder their glow,
Brilliant stars overhead danced a fairy show.
In this atmosphere cares were cast aside,
There components of beauty and peace abide.

COUNTRY CONTRASTS

(Italian Sonnet)

Brown gibber stones reflect with blinding glare
the sun's relentless rays on desert plain,
where in the distant haze mirages feign
a promise of respite from journey's care.

Explorers knew first-hand of wild despair
as wearily they trudged this vast terrain;
found not the inland sea of Dreamtime's reign
when all was lush with Nature's verdent fare.

Their eyes denied the beauty which ensues
when rain casts magic spells across the land:
transcended then its colours flat and bland
by flower fan-fares decked in vivid hues.

The elements a tool in Nature's hand
to bless, deprive, regenerate or bruise.

OLD TRACKS

They fascinate and beckon me,
Old tracks and roads unsealed,
Presenting such a challenge to
Explore their haunts concealed.

Sometimes a track leads nowhere, stops
Abruptly 'midst the trees
Which guard the secrets of this place,
Left floating in the breeze.

One track leads to a miner’s shack,
Abandoned to its fate:
A rusty dish which panned for gold,
A battered metal plate.

Sometimes a lonely fishing beach
Where sandflies bite and sting,
Where mangroves spread their eerie roots
Which harbour fingerling.

Maybe just rotting stumps portray
What was a family home;
Now mango and bush lemon trees
Thrive in the sandy loam.

The sprawling chinky-apple trees,
The broken windmill fins;
Glass bottle fragments’ darting glint,
Corroded, empty tins.

Just rubbish now, just useless trash,
Which speak of bygone days
When folk fought bravely in their quest,
Surviving Nature’s frays.

I ponder on their meagre lives,
This pioneering breed;
From diverse origins they came
And lived by Mateship’s Creed.

These dusty roads and lonely tracks
Intrigue, appeal, assuage:
Imagination’s open book
Where History turns the page.










TRAVELLING TERRAIN

Sandhills and salt bush,
Blue skies and bleached bones,
Eagles and emus,
Galahs and gibber stones.

Red soil, rutted road,
Cattle grids, cockatoos,
Brush grass and bulldust,
Copper burr, kangaroos.

Dingoes and dry creeks,
Black crows and box trees,
Mulga and mitchell grass,
Graded tracks and gidyeas.

Clay pans and carcasses,
Wallabies and windmills,
Colours in contrast,
Desert and distant hills.

So as we drove the inland tracks,
O’er plain and mountain range,
We marvelled at the beauty of
This timeless land of change.










BLUE MOUNTAINS

The Blue Mountains, a wilderness landscape
Of deep canyons where bush creatures dwell;
Golden cliffs with vast water-worn caves where
Aboriginal myths weave their spell.

The Three Sisters who fled from the bunyip,
By the witch doctor turned into stone;
Now they stand overlooking the valley
From which ancestral tribesfolk have flown.

The blue haze from the eucalypts hovers,
The soft tinkling of bell birds pervades,
The galahs, cockatoos and rosellas
Screech a chorus in colourful shades.

The sharp crack of the whip bird resounding,
To be answered in turn by its mate,
While the lyre bird artfully mimics
The wild sounds of its forest estate.

The Blue Mountains, a place full of beauty
Where bush walks feature Nature’s display:
Bright cascades, waterfalls and fern grottos,
Mossy gardens where fairy folk play.













VOICES

I hear their voices calling as in my mind they merge,
borne by the desert breezes and the ocean's swelling surge.

The melody of bird songs which blends with each new day
the fragrance of the bush with its nocturnal wild soiree.

The colours of the Outback where ancient dreams are born,
the clouds which promise rainfall but whose promise is withdrawn.

The shifting sandhills' mysteries whose cryptic clues elude,
the coastline seas whose colours complement each changing mood.

The wildlife in the billabongs, the inland waterways,
the relics of the gold rush years and copper mining days.

I hear their voices calling in nostalgic rhythmic strains,
I can no longer disregard the lure of these refrains.

I'll shed the bonds of city life, its mad, chaotic pace,
throw caution to the wind and so my erstwhile steps retrace.

I'll view again the Outback and absorb its vibrant shades,
meander through the countryside till my last sunset fades.














YOWAH

Have you heard of a town that’s called Yowah?
Have you heard of the famed Yowah nut?
To the eye of the untrained prospector
Just a rock to be discarded, but…

If it’s chipped on each end and examined,
Maybe colours of red, blue and green
You’ll find glinting against the bright sunlight:
A fine opal of excellent sheen.

At Yowah we met with the miners,
Also amateur diggers whose dreams
Were of finding a fortune in opal
Buried deep in old river bed seams.

They evolved from earth’s burning and cooling,
The upheavals which Nature has signed
As she vent forth her fury and passion
With a singular purpose of mind.

When her chaotic fury had dwindled,
She worked quietly, unseen below
Forming Yowah nut opals to covet,
To be prized and admired on show.

So each day for the fields we departed,
Where we dug and we sieved in the sun;
We found two Yowah nuts which we treasure:
Wasn’t worth the hard work – but was fun!

BACK O’ BOURKE

“It’s all happening out the Back O’ Bourke” –

The land where Sturt and Mitchell once explored;
It’s where the Darling River flows,
It’s where sheep graze, where cotton grows,
Where once the noble paddle steamers moored.

Historic buildings speak of former days:
The London Bank, the Court House grand;
The pubs and churches stately stand,
A tribute to our pioneering phase.

Here poets such as Ogilvie penned lines,
His friend Morant the Breaker too,
And Henry Lawson – they all knew
And loved this land of ever-changing climes.

The Shearers’ Union born of strife and pain;
Here Thunderbolt and Starlight rode,
Demanding Cobb and Co’s payload;
Here legacies of floods and droughts remain.

Bourke’s spirit these disasters has defied:
Each cotton crop, each citrus tree,
Jojoba plant, the ginnery,
Resound the stories locals tell with pride –

“Yes, it’s all happening out the Back O’ Bourke”

BY THE CREEK

I followed the track to the winding creek
Where sunlight and shadows played hide and seek,
Where tall gum trees bowed to the waters clear
Which blithefully bubbled o'er rock and tier.

I picnicked with Nature who shared her fare
Of magical morsels dispelling care;
From platters of beauty absorbed her charm,
And drank of her cup filled with endless calm.

Beyond to the green of the pasture land,
Birds' echoing calls trilled in tuneful strand.
The mountains exuded a hazy sheen
Protecting bush creatures wild, unseen.

I lay on the ground, watched the gum trees sway,
Imagined I owned a bush hideaway
With stream running by bearing fish to catch,
Some cows, a few chooks and a vegie patch.

To wake up each morn to the birds' chorale –
A lively elixir to lift morale;
To sit by the campfire when night descends
Alone, but not lonely or lacking friends.

Words written by Paterson came to mind,
Lamenting his lot in the city's bind;
Expressing his envy of Clancy's life
Away from the mainstream of bustling strife.

Though futile my wish, like his, that I
To life in the city could say goodbye,
Whene'er I indulge in fair fancy's flight
My spirit returns to that bush delight.

SECRETS IN THE SHALE

We so happened one day on our journeys to chance
At the end of the Capertee Valley expanse,
Where escarpments stand guard
O'er a ghost town retard,
With its secrets and mem'ries of History's dance.

The old town's called Glen Davis where oil shale was mined
To produce kerosene, and in war time refined
Into fuel whose supply,
It was feared, would run dry;
Such a venture abandoned when output declined.

Folk were housed in slab huts, their conditions were poor,
Yet their labours acknowledged the effort of war;
But in time, to acclaim,
Real amenities came:
A post office, a school, butcher shop, general store.

Isolation the thread binding credence diverse
As folk battled at home to survive Hitler's curse.
But time saw the works close
As production costs rose,
Causing miners, their fam'lies and friends to disperse.

Now the high sandstone cliffs with their colourful sheen
Overlook the mine site, eerie, fine and serene;
The brown torbanite vein
And oil shale still remain,
While the ghosts of the past haunt the shadowy scene.

COOBER PEDY

On Coober Pedy’s outskirts where the opal colours fire
We noodled mullock heaps and hoped a fortune to acquire.

Three miners heading west stopped in their battered 2-ton truck;
“G’day,” they said, “How goes it? Are you having any luck?”

“We’ve only found some potch,” we said, “not really worth the fuss.
There’s naught of any value here for amateurs like us.”

“We’re heading for our mine just now, explosives to ignite,
You’re welcome if you want to come – the turnoff’s on the right.”

Along the dusty track we drove until their shaft we found,
Climbed down the swinging ladder 35 feet underground.

They led us through a maze of drives, criss-crossing here and there,
Drilled holes within the wall of rock and laid each charge with care.

Retreating to a safety zone, we braced ourselves on cue
As air whooshed past and shook the ground while nine blasts thundered through.

We waited till the ventilator cleared the dust and trash
While each mind pondered had the blasts exposed an opal cache.

Returning to the blasting scene when one man gave the call,
Showed hints of greens and firey reds in patches on the wall.

It seemed to us good fortune had on these men been bestowed,
But “No,” they said, “it doesn’t lead us to the mother lode.”

Though disappointed yet we knew their hopes would never rest;
They’d return there tomorrow and continue in their quest.

We travelled back to town with them and shared a beer or two;
They told us tales of mining camps, of mates they termed “true blue”.

They spoke about the loneliness, of losses and of gains,
The mining bug whose toxin beat a rhythm in their veins.

We’d met by chance, we parted and have heard of them no more,
But now and then a stray thought brings those memories to the fore.

KURIDALA

In Queensland's far north-west abide ghost towns whose former fame,
Though but short-lived, revolved around the copper mining game.

One such is Kuridala, but a dot now on the map;
Devoid of buildings, all that's left are bits of metal scrap.

No churches, pubs or mining camps, no stampers crushing ore,
Just here and there some rotting planks which zealous white ants gnaw.

The countryside is hard and harsh where rough and rugged hills
Bespeak of ancient turmoil, of upheavals, floods and spills.

Such chaos left a legacy - a fossicker's delight -
Of tourmaline and amethyst, of jasper, stauralite.

We spent a weekend on this field, in mid-November heat;
With crow bars, picks and shovels, worked the ground beneath our feet.

The prize we sought was amethyst in crystal cluster fine,
Attesting to the complex art of Nature's rare design.

Though pestered by the flies and heat, our goal we kept in mind,
And marvelled how the pioneers coped with such daily grind.

Few comforts were afforded them, their shelters rough-hewn shacks,
Defying not the elements or snakes to flout the cracks.

When sun's rays waned, soft breezes blew, our tools we laid aside,
The moon peeped o'er the ridge and peace caressed the countryside.

We set the billy on the fire, camp oven in the coals,
Sat back, relaxed, embraced the night: a soft balm to our souls.

DIVERS OF THE DEEP

Excitement, romance, danger called the moods of Roebuck Bay
where swift tides round red beach rocks raced a swirl;
where divers plunged the depths to search the murky underworld
for oyster shells which bore the precious pearl.

In heavy copper helmets worn atop their canvas suits
and leaden boots to hasten their descent,
as isolated as a lonely planet lost in space
they played a game of chance with keen intent.

A cobweb thread of rubber hose their only lifeline link
to crew aboard the lugger, on alert
for adverse weather changes, circling sharks or tangled lines:
all dangers apt to render life inert.

The dreaded bends, a constant fear which plagued the divers minds,
as panic saw them surface with a haste.
In throbbing pain with screaming cramps they often choked and died:
on beach rock headstones now their lives are traced.

Each year the O-bon Festival in Broome recalls the souls
of those long gone and welcomes their return
to visit with their relatives, to honour, feast and dance:
their pathway home alight as lanterns burn.

The spirits of the dead remain for just a few short days
before returning to their other place;
on tiny boats the spirit lights float with the nightly tide:
a scene of saddened beauty, peace and grace.

To hold a lighted lantern as a welcome for the dead
amidst the graveyard's monuments of stone
evokes a surge of empathy, a tightness in the chest,
to feel their pain and hear each anguished groan.

But later as the spirit boats drift out upon the tide,
serenity wraps warmly round the soul.
Life's agonies and torments wane, as with the floating lights,
while new resolves encompass special goals.