The Mill On The Supply Poem by Les Littleford

The gums in the amphitheatre
above the fall
will have seen it all.

The blasting of rocks
for building and path

The felling of trees
for flume and mill

Such heavy labour

and for a few, brief decades
the arrival of wheat,
departure of corn

and intermittent assault
from deadly bushrangers.

As the trees grew
imperceptibly
ever more stately
activity slowed
then ceased.

The gums still dominate the skyline,
the fresh, clean water still tumbles through the falls
but at the mill
only ruins
and ghosts
remain.