Down by the Queanbeyan River

A river too is like a library,

Its banks like storied shelves,

Its memories written on water, 

And in the nearby land.

The suspension bridge still bounces like it always did, 

And on each end the obelisks 

Painted brilliant white,

Hold up the spiralled cables, 

Steeled taught across the gulf,

Across the space between one world 

And that which is beyond.

It looked old when I first saw it

And it is, a dole project schemed for 

Depression Era men 

Raised up to replace an older bridge

That floods had washed away,

And before that stepping stones

That linked Irishtown to 

To the Protestants and services 

That flourished on the better side.

Irishtown, where much later

Italians had their church

New Australians or perhaps New Irish

They might be called, along with

Macedonians, Greeks and Serbians

Locals all.

Perhaps an Italian brought the 

Two Stone Pines that stand tall

By the Catholic Church and the 

Cypresses that run in ranks along

The broad Monaro road

And all the arches so popular

In the suburbs out of town

White Australia’s sunk in the lake

And now the faces of the town

Come in every hue

And divisions of the past forgot,

As new arrivals from every land

Bring chapati and many other things

Once thought strange and new

Nature too tells stories

The autumn reds and yellows on the banks

They’re new arrivals like the folk 

That came and settled by the shore, 

But giant gums still rise up 

Mighty at the back.

Upstream all is wild

And you’ll still glimpse a platypus

With a bit of luck, or find yourself

(The kookaburras laughing on the branch) 

Red belly black snake,

Swimming by your flank.

The plaques recount the history

In faded black and white

And even if the stitches in the possum cloak 

Are now unseen, walking by the shore, 

The plaques are careful not to propagate 

The myth of an emptied, freed up land

And Reconciliation Day reminds

Us, so we don’ t forget, that this

Land is still unceded, 

And Aboriginal it still remains. 

An old mill lingers by the bank

Though the creaking of the wheel 

No longer rumbles in the night …

Now steam blasts the coffee in the cup

And powers frothy milk.

But down by the bank, 

The rushes still glimmer in the sun,

The water deep and dark, 

Its currents carrying and caressing

Memories of the past.