Saturday, July 07, 2007


After long and arduous journey, finally reached our destination, valley bathed in late afternoon sun, was an absolute sensation, natural amphitheatre, sculpted from quartzite and sandstone cliffs rising all round, left-over remnants, prehistoric vulcanic cone.

Suddenly sharp turning track, slowing you to creek, deep running, revealing just a glimpse of landscape to come, pristine, stunning, following through stands of flowering Red River Gums, gravel track, already mesmerized by landscape, it would be hard to go back.

Seeming endless vista of finely granulated red coloured earth, strengthening the impression that this was a volcanic afterbirth, the vegetation Porcupine Grass, interspersed with Native Pine, its all here to enjoy and lifts one's spirits, a holiday sublime.

In the distance, crumbling homestead, witness to a rich past, what could have been reason why their prosperity didn't last, was it drought, bushfires, floods, making it impossible to survive or grazing too many sheep, the bank foreclosing, we can only surmise.

Each morning awakening to dawn chorus of birds, o what bliss, reminder of what, in hustle and bustle of city life, pure nature we miss, landscape jogged memory of a painting, seen in museum gallery, a painter who'd justly captured, on canvas, almost beauty of valley.

With sadness, yet with revitalised inner self, homeward bound, this, one of many tranquil and energising places, Wilpena Pound, a must to visit again, when life's Spirit, batteries are running low, returning with beautiful memories and that satisfying inner glow.


THE ELUSIVE DREAM . . . .



Remnants of worked-out claims, faint names of streets
where once the gold wheeler and dealers used to meet
so-called abodes, bark and canvas, reflecting days of old
left-overs from hurly burly bustling town, men dug for gold.
some windows, canvas doors, lazely flapping in hot breeze
the few inhabitants, philosophical, pretty much at ease
in days gone by, the word "Gold", on every-ones lips
most of the diggings now, a few left, mainly rubbish tips.
Mullock heaps, winching gear, deep holes in ground
end of dream, not finding pot of gold, poverty bound
depravity, hardships, squalor, all in name of gold
true stories of their lives, some sordid, never told.
Some forsook their jobs, loved ones, young and old
all for that elusive dream, sparked by that word "GOLD"
walking for miles, their few possesions on their back
relentlessly driven by magic word along never ending track
When gold ran out, to the next rumoured find they hurried
some remained behind, permanently, in cemetery buried
unmarked graves, perhaps a blade of grass, parched soil
on top of elusive gold, that they missed in their daily toil?