Creative Traditional:

[mountainpepper]

As kids we called it Springsure’s Hill,
A wonderful place to hone our skill,
Playing in scrub till light was gone
Hide and seek with my brother Ron.

We knew the birds; they knew us too,
Bellbird, Thornbill, Black Cockatoo,
Bandicoots strange digging habits,
Along the fence line trapping rabbits.

There is no sunrise on Springsure Hill,
But sunsets do my senses fill,
Every tree has an orange glow,
Shroud of nightfall follows shadow.

Never ever thought I’d see the day,
When all that scrub was cleared away,
But I’m not to worry it will be fine.
On the hill they’re planting pine.

They’re cutting down trees to plant more trees,
It don’t make sense until one sees,
How quick does grow this foreign pine,
Every row is a perfect line.

The hill grows lush and a sea of green,
With not a thing growing in between,
Dark and eerie, nothing more,
A blanket of needles on the floor.

Gone are the Goodia, the Correa,
Heath, Tree Ferns and Grevillea,
Ragwort thrives on the outer fringe,
Enough to make the farmer cringe.

They’re cutting down trees to plant more trees,
It don’t make sense until one sees,
Chainsaw, Log truck, Crane and Gantry,
Cutting down trees…commercially.

I note the slope on Springsure’s Hill,
With rows of stumps and waiting till,
Scotch Thistle, Blackberry, sun and rain,
Have Springsure’s Hill back green again.

[PaintedDiary]

Dear mountainpepper,

This was an enjoyable and memorable read. Made me think of trees that I have enjoyed as a young gal...now gone. Again, I LOVE when poets take a topic that some may overlook and scribe about it. It flowed like mountain spring water and the rhyme was quite nice. I enjoyed this very very much. Thank you so much for sharing with us!

Kimberly

[mountainpepper]

G'day PaintedDiary...
thank you for reading and commenting on my poem...the point I try to get across is, once the pristine scrub is gone, it's gone and no matter how green the hill looks...it is now a commercial entity...and someday...

Lindsay