The wattle’s fragrance near the billabong
Arrives on the gentle morning breeze,
And brings an eerie feeling…. Strong,
That voices murmur in these trees.
Telling stories of this place,
O’re countless passing days and nights.
Of a ancient proud but dying race,
Who knew the dreamtime, and min min lights.
Tis home to one who’s path met mine,
On a morning trek with a mate to town
To gain our fill of cheap red wine….
We were almost there when she slowed down
A dusty battered Holden wreck.
A woman driver, a pet Dingo.
We thought ...