Bagpipes over the Arboretum drift up to the hill

The bagpipe’s lilting melody,

With its deeper backing drone, 

Drifts up the dusty path 

And finds us on the hill. 

Just walking by, we aren’t invited 

To the wedding down below.

The happy guests gather to the merry tune

Near the bowl carved in the slope 

Where families from around the world

With their thousand untold tales,

Pass a brilliant autumn day,

A hundred gaily fluttering kites, 

Hanging high above their heads.

No better scene could be imagined.

The trees of Canberra’s foreign forests

Grace this scene of beauty 

In this peaceful, blessed land. 

The Corkwood, still tended

By artisans from Portugal 

And the Stone Pines down out back

Leaves of gold and red 

Or rose and orange, an

Autumn fit for Hobbit land.

The words Wide Brown Land stand proud

In rusty iron scrolled, 

Nearby the Himalayan Cedars

But no drab brownness here, 

For as far as eye can see

A verdant autumn tapestry stretches 

About the glitter of the lake.

The arboretum is a new born beauty

And I wonder if the roots 

Of its hundred grafted forests 

Are yet firmly wedded to this land. 

And a dandelion clock, 

The wind nibbling at its seeds, 

Asks me: might the wind take you as well

If your roots aren’t really deep?

Yes a place of peace where children fly 

Their kites, and need not dodge death 

Raining slyly in the night. 

A place of peace

A place of hope 

That humanity might begin again.

The surface of the lake ripples in, 

Gold and silver glory; the water 

Tipping from the dam. The dam that

Years ago was built to beautify the city.

But the lazy carp stir up the mud 

And below the murky water 

There’s another tale untold

Drowned deep are artefacts 

And grinding grooves and burials

And no more are seen the campfires 

On Black Mountain’s meeting grounds, 

Though survivors still call the places

By their ancient names.

And something else sleeps fitfully

In the lake’s abyss, White Australia’s

Coffin was sealed and sunk

Right on the line that runs between

The silent Hall of Memory

And the chattering on the Hill.

And if you dive down to the deep

You’ll see the rusting chains 

That wrap the coffin and keep it firmly shut

And on the lid, the words inscribed 

“Open at Your Peril; 

Here lie the gates of Hell”.

But some would dredge the coffin up 

And open up the lid and yes 

From the vampire’s heart 

Pull out the bloody stake.

Down deep in dark abyss, fitfully

It sleeps …

But as we walk along the path, 

The autumn sun shines bright, 

And the wedding guests are full of joy.

To the bride and groom the future!

As hand to hand they meet,

And black and white they bring together,

Nevermore they’ll be estranged.