Bush Poetry
There’s nothing like the wide open spaces, old friends and companions, good food and wine, a glowing camp fire, stars above and time to relax to turn one’s thoughts to writing verse.
So over the last twenty years of bushwalking with mates and friends (our own group we call “FARTS”- Fellowship of Artful Rambling as a Therapeutic Science) we have often succumbed to this temptation. Our offerings are below. Whether they are poetry or doggerel I’ll let you decide.
Thanks to my mates for allowing to reproduce their works on this site.
- A Letter from the Bush by Terry Linsell
- A Passing Wind by Stephen Prescott
- A School Girl’s Question by Peter Lawrence
- Bob’s Free Verse 1995 by Bob Taylor
- Bob’s Free Verse 1996 by Bob Taylor
- Boobee Gold by Peter Lawrence
- Boobee by Terry Linsell
- Boots and All by Peter Lawrence
- Burrungubungee Passage by Peter Lawrence
- Bushwalker’s Plea Anonymous
- Diamantina Spurned by Peter Lawrence
- Farters Lament by Peter, Bob & Terry
- Jagungal by Peter Lawrence
- Ode to a Blue Flame by Peter Lawrence
- Sounds by Terry Linsell
- Stuff the Bloody Rain by Terry Linsell
- Taken for Granted by Terry Linsell
- TBL by Terry Linsell
- The Meaning of Life by Peter Lawrence
- To Burrungubugge Shelter by Terry Linsell
- Untitled by Bob Taylor
- Untitled 2 by Judith Harvie
- Wendy by Stephen Prescott
(To those who stay at home)
It’s time again to grab the pack
And books and clothes and maps
To stow it in the Beetle’s back
And wave from between the gaps.
I’ve seen a tear, I’ve heard a cry
(Especially in earlier days)
You wonder where I go, and why
And what so draws me away.
T’is true, t’is true – I cannot wait
You may think I do not care
When I join my two old mates
A bush walk to prepare.
We have a plan in germination
But this can be quite churny
Our joy lies not in the destination
But rather in the journey.
We’ve been to places windy and bent
Midst mountain cliffs and crags
A huddled trio in a tiny tent
All cosy in our bags.
On other days with sun full bright
We’ve lain in meadows green
Nearby a hut- there’s no lovelier sight
That we have ever seen.
In between we’ve sweated rivers
Climbing this spur or that
Out of breath and legs aquiver
Till on the top we sat.
Of course we carry far too much
There’s pate, wine and cheese
(Choose Aussie, French or even Dutch
We’re fussy, if you please!)
Midst sweat and groans, or sighs of pleasure
Our loved ones come yet to mind
We wish them here to share the treasure
To see what we have pined.
We often say- what day is this?
(We lose all track of time)
And though our mates might take the piss
We talk of lips of wine.
We wonder what you’re doing now
And a silent message send
Sometimes we may even breathe a vow
Our bad ways to amend.
Our children we know one day will feel
The need to get away
To find a place their souls to heal
Far from the madding fray.
This letter flows from my pen
In front of Blair’s old hut
The river follows the rocky glen
And the sun warms up my butt.
Enough of words that can’t convey
The peace we find out here
We’ll do it again, come what may
You’ll be waving us off next year!
Terry Linsell
Blair’s Hut
Keiwa West River
Victoria
March 3, 1997
It’s been a lovely bushwalk
Along the Snowy track,
With memories and nostalgic talk,
Three friends from way, way back.
Our diet of dried fruit and nuts
Has made it awfully clear,
Excretion is our primal lust
And sex is stale beer.
We’ve shat our way through Pretty Plains
And farted all the while.
Terry said he went outside…
And then we’d see him smile.
The wombat hiding in his hole
Dug deeper underground,
When Peter, armed with spade and roll
Began to fart around.
Stephen, the embarrassed one,
Was never caught, and yet
The other two would always know
Just how bad could it get?
With peaches, pears and apricots,
Dates, nuts and muesli bars,
A wide and open country
T’is necessity for us!
It’s been a lovely bushwalk,
Three friends from way back when…
We’ve eaten, shat and farted
And we’re going home again!!
Stephen Prescott ….April 1986
Wheeler’s Hut
As I stagger along beneath my pack
Which weighs twenty five full kilos
Dragging each leg along the track
Trying to forget my aching toes.
As my muscles burn with each step I take
And the sweat runs inside my shirt
I stop and bend down to relieve my back
And each gasp for air almost hurts.
As I stumble along and the clouds round me swirl
Struggling until I really must stop
I think of the question asked by a young schoolgirl
Near the hut beside Mount Feathertop.
When told that we’re out for a week she asked “ Why ?”
That stumped me for one short time
“Because it’s good fun” I heard myself cry
As I tell myself on climb after climb.
The question she asked is of course a good one
There has to be good cause to do this
So I’ll give you the reasons why we call this fun
And why life’s luxuries we’re prepared to miss.
At the end of the day when the fire is aglow
And dinner is smelling good
And a bottle of red is breathing slow
The answer seems understood.
When friends can talk of things that have been
No pretences here are made
And verse is writ about what we’ve seen
As the embers begin to fade.
Neither talk nor sleep can be disturbed
By the sound of a ringing phone-
Just the noise of the wind and rain or a bird
With the freedom to be alone.
It’s exalting to view mountain range after range
Disappear into shades of blue
And later to watch these same mountains change
Silhouetted by sunset hues.
And so when I’m aching and it’s become an ordeal
And the girl’s question rings in my head
You will know why and how and what I feel
And why I’m happy to forgo my soft bed.
One mountain view is all that’s needed for me
To be reason for all of the pain
But there are many reasons I’m sure you can see
Why I’ll keep coming back again.
Where the groan of branches in the wind can be heard
And the sound of a clear running stream
An occasional song of a mountain bird
And the ring of a phone is a dream.
With the scent of eucalypt in the air
As I step along mountain tracks
And a gentle breeze blowing in my hair
I have something which city life lacks.
Peter Lawrence
Victorian Alps March 1997
We travelled at night as we usually do
By moonlight on the Nungar Plain
To Gavells Hut just another K or two
And we’re back in the Park once again.
“Just a short 4 K walk” Peter had said
“And it’s mostly downhill all the way
There’s plenty of water, firewood in the shed
And fine food at the end of the day”.
Well Gavel’s was clean and no time did we take
To unpack all our gear on the floor
And Peter said ” FARTS – would you like pepper steak?”
( On the first night it’s almost a law ).
“But first some hors d’oeuvres, K.I. Cheddar no less
And perhaps then a seafood bisque!”
” A Shiraz ’88 would complete this I guess”
Thought Bob – “can’t be much of a risk”.
Sunday, day two, as we ramble again
And the whistle blows sharply at seven
If we have breakfast at eight and leave by ten
We can have morning tea at eleven.
But FARTS will be FARTS as only FARTS can
At eleven we left Gavel’s Hut
With hats and blockout for an even suntan
Does anyone know a shortcut?
At Schofield’s one thirty, the hut’s occupied
Peter, Wally and the elder Kevon
Leaving for Circuit’s they could need a guide
We’ll stay for Earl Grey then press on.
Circuit’s was roomy but ravaged by hoon
But we stayed a rest day anyway,
Well almost a day – it was bloody near noon
By the time we decided to stay.
Tuesday morning to Witses and Hain’s
I suppose Gail’s got flowers to spare
While Janice takes T.A.F.E. no student complains
And Mary she dreams of Pierre.
From Witses’ a day walk to Hain’s sounds like fun
For a look and a wash in the river
But 3 K off track and our trip has begun
As a shortcut only FARTS can deliver.
The ‘Bidgee is great for an armpit and crotch
As Peter and Bob soon discovered
Said Terry “Iced water my bum won’t touch
You can both keep your noses covered.”
Back at Witses’ we found the Telecom Boys
Bearing apples from Gooandra ruins
They marvelled at all of the FARTS’ strange toys
And all of their peculiar doin’s.
The Telecom Party bolted at nine
In true form we left at eleven
We carried Pete’s tea-bags to the end of the line
Where Wally’s Earl Grey tasted like heaven.
Then Terry said “Peter, what do you think
Of two nights at Harvey’s, Tantangara?
Wally’ll run you back in a wink
And we’ll lighten our packs at Kiandra.”
The powerline track seemed to rise up so steep
Terry thought we’d roll arse over tit
But we continued on up and up in the jeep
Sawyer’s Hill didn’t bother us one bit.
On a bearing of thirty we followed the ridge
Where the pigs and the brumbies abound
Wondering what Harvey would have in the ‘fridge
And whether the hut would be found.
Early next day following afternoon tea
We assembled our climbing gear
Up Tantangara Mountain the vista to see
Then back down for a curry and beer.
We’ve had a good week in the Mountains
Bob’s pack has lost twenty pound
We’ve really enjoyed the wine and champagne
And our friendship we’ve once again found.
Bob Taylor (with help from his friends)
Snowy Mountains March 1995
( Bob’s free verse (BFV) …. A rambling, happy-go-lucky form of poetry where rhyme is optional and metre is attempted but sometimes questionable. Clichés are allowed. )
When I think back on those first three days
of our ramble in ninety six
Jindabyne, Keating, Howard — the strange ways of Costello ,one of John’s new sidekicks
Sunday at Munyang, the Liberals are back
The rest of the day is now a blur
as we throw up our tent and begin to unpack
In snow gums on the rise of the spur
I’d received no advice in the mail that year concerning the paths we would trace
I arrived at Dundas and had a cold beer then looked Terry straight in the face
“Well what’s the plan mate? Has Peter told you?
Was a letter to your joint sent?”
“No worries Bob —– we’ll just stroll to Tin Hut
Up the spur they call disappointment.”
Well the sound of that name still fills me with dread
I recall saying “Peter and Terry —- forget this idea —- let’s take Schlink Pass instead
and we’ll walk down the spur from the Kerries”
“Jeez, Don’t be a wimp Bob! Let’s act like men
We’ll find the right track very soon
We’ll conquer the spur and continue on then to Tin Hut on this same afternoon.
Of course I agreed, had I then had hindsight
Of the plan Terry once had proposed
A stroll up the Guthega and on down to White’s
I’m sure I would have been less composed —-
But time, as you know, lessens one’s fear
And memories of events in the past
So I hoisted my pack “Is this track very near?
Is it easy to find as forecast?”
It wasn’t to be —– no path could be found
by the pipes at the base of the climb
and so we agreed to take the road ’round
to the hut — perhaps we’d have time for noodle and tea while we’d then reassess
the best way we could go on from there
And then Terry found “A Highway” —- no less
“Four lanes” —- We’d have hours to spare
And so off we set with a spring in our stride
(The spirit of F.A.R.T.S. never wanes)
On the pathway of promise so smooth and so wide
with a stream sparkling between the “four lanes”
Gail, Mary and Janice —– they’d love to be here
on this ramble with us —- but wait —– no!
The highway has ended! It was mown for a mere
eighty metres to reveal the stream’s flow
We had to go on —- our hopes somewhat dashed
We’d surely find tracks once again
Take a bearing or two and simply bush bash
Linsell’s law always works nine in ten
Well we bashed for five hours and pulled out the tent
Compared to Tin Hut this was spartan
And that’s how Sunday on the spur came and went
As the sun set behind Mt. Gungartan
Monday, day three, it was sunny and fine, and refreshed and renewed from our rest
We were sure if we packed up and left right on nine
we could follow the spur on the crest
and then after lunch descend the contour of the ridge overlooking Tin Hut
And on our arrival —- It would be about four
light the fire and pull the door shut.
Well the crest had no meadow or track to be found
It was rocky and rough and unkind
We agreed to descend —- perhaps a path wound
It’s way down below and we’d find
it would lead us to Tin Hut in two or three hours
We’d make it O.K. although late
We’d raise every effort and summon all powers
But we didn’t know what was our fate.
Barely one K from Tin and with plenty of light
and still strength left in our legs,
the clouds closed over and turned day into night
So Peter pulled out the tent pegs
” There —- that clump of trees —- we’ll throw up the tent”
He yelled as a flash split the sky
and the rain pelted down and we suddenly went
to drowned F.A.R.T.S. in the blink of an eye.
So Peter and Terry assembled the tent’s arc as the Heavens continued to pour
while I scratched around for some dry scraps of bark
for a fire, amid thunder’s roar
with a little dry paper and a prayer in my heart
I struck the first match for the flame
“Don’t be a Costello * , That won’t bloody start!
As sure as Terry’s my name!’
On that Monday night we saw out the storm
though we weren’t quite prepared for such weather
We even had a fire! to keep ourselves warm
We had managed to do it together
And then Tuesday morning we arrived at Tin Hut
Of our week that wasn’t the end
We had many good times in ’96 —– but
You may hear about those from a friend.
*Costello —- A simple foolish fellow intent on getting his own way against all odds. His words and actions often quite ridiculous.
Bob Taylor
F.A.R.T.S.
1988 —-
A valley of gold in the sun’s last rays
Lies beneath in the still of day
Not a flicker of movement of grass or tree
Oh how peaceful this place can be.
Silence prevails save the rosella’s chatter
The city’s rush now doesn’t matter
As the distant hills lose their colourful hue
And evening settles around me too
The flames of the fire leap and dance
Inviting me into their world of trance
To reminisce with friends of old
Such tales there are which must be told.
Sojourns in the mountains for men who grow old
These are the fortunes which are made of gold.
Peter Lawrence
Boobee Hut
Happy Jack Plains
March 1990
So peaceful, so quiet – I sit on the steps
Gazing across the Low Plains.
The Sun throws a last glance at Boobee Hut
A reward so rich for our pains.
We’ve threaded our way from Kosciusko and Tate,
The Peaks were simply dazzling.
We drank our fill from the Cup and Saucer
And passed the Mail Box late.
Cesjacks and Mackeys have heard our groans –
At night we toss and turn.
But our joy abounds at the end of the day,
When we rest our weary bones.
But of all the Huts and hills and views,
Boobee beats them all.
Perhaps that’s why she hides so well,
Faint lovers she eschews~
The ghosts of diggers and stockmen are near,
They’re loathe to leave their Love.
My leaden attempts to paint some words,
Don’t do justice to Boobee, I fear.
Terry Linsell 14-3-90
Boobee hut
The bastard Terry said one day
“We’ll go out for a walk”
“Don’t bring your boots” I heard him say
“You want things light as chalk”
He spoke in praise of jogging shoes
“They’re comfy and so quick”
It seemed I had nothing to lose
I thought they’d do the trick
Along Round Mountain track I knew
‘Twas all a big mistake
With each step the squelching grew
In the joggers was a lake
My toes were slowly freezing
Each minute growing numb
When we stop I’m going
To kick him in the bum
I hadn’t planned on snow and ice
Nor slush and mud and bog
Steve’s boots he says to wear are nice
Like falling from a log
Thank God I brought some garbage bags
Which went inside the shoes
Outside my socks they looked like rags
But toes I did not lose
When Terry said “We’ll cut through here
Straight across the top
It’s shorter by a mile or near”
I should have said “Let’s stop”
We staggered up and down through snow
Sweating all the while
How we got there I don’t know
From Grey Mare to the trail
We ventured on through wombats’ poos
To Pretty Plains log shack
Past the marker poles for those
Whose map reading is quite slack
At Pretty Plains we met a group
And had to raise a tent
They cooked a great big curry soup
Which smelt from heaven sent
That night it rained and caused a sag
The fly was not quite right
I woke to water on the bag
‘Twas not a pretty sight
Today we came to Wheeler’s shed
Bush bashing one more time
Looking forward to the bed
Buggered from the climb
Tomorrow if there isn’t snow
or rain or hail or ice
We’re heading off to Paton’s hut
It’s said to be quite nice
That is, if garbage bags remain
Intact and don’t go phut
While drying out, or else
Terry gets it in the butt
The moral of this tale of woe
If you will avoid the blues
Wear boots if bushwalking you go
Forget the bloody shoes.
(Addendum)
MORNING AT WHEELER’S HUT
This morning as I lay in bed
Snoring all the while
A rat jumped down upon my head
And wiped away the smile.
Peter Lawrence
Wheeler’s Hut
April 1986
Rusted metal, blackened corner posts, stones and broken
dreams
Lie among the tussocks which old Constance trod
This broken hearth once warmed the feet of horsemen –
distant neighbours, travellers
And later walkers and skiers pursuing Herbert Schlink
and fleeing the cold.
And now fused droplets of amber and green lie hidden in
the grass
Remnants of talk and laughter, thirst and appetite
Before the consuming flames.
Fire, the centre of man’s thought among the hills and
rivers and snow plains
Devouring the hours and spitting out precious sparks of
the moment
Has repeated the age old process of returning creation
to mother earth
Leaving a transient reminder of another time.
Perhaps our children will search and find
the overgrown stones above the river
And will climb the other bank to look for traces
of old Reid’s hut and yard
Like us to discover a few relics to show there was a
human presence
Even there, overlooking Constance’s hut
Long before the fire came.
Peter Lawrence
Constance’s hut site
Burrungubugge River
March 1993
(Postcard at Circuits Hut)
From hailstorms and fogs
And mosquito filled bogs
Snakes on the track
And an overweight pack;
Boots that cause blisters
And rain shrouded vistas;
Protect and preserve us
These things make me nervous.
You beckoned us gently onto your slopes
And led us through wildflowers creating high hopes
With views from your crest to left and to right
Promising gentle descent into the depths of the night.
You seduced us with views from a rocky outcrop
And cosy campfire not far from the top.
We lingered a while in glen soft and inviting
Before following your call to places yet more exciting.
But right at the peak your mood different grew
Your misty cold breath around us you blew
As we struggled along with sweat and with grind
You soon demonstrated what was on your mind.
You angrily hurled us and downwards we fell
Tripping and sliding – a descent into hell
You tried hard to throw us from a steep rocky cliff
This certainly was not just some lovers’ tiff.
With muscles and tendons bemoaning their fate
At the bottom we fell,completely prostrate.
Panting to sounds of a clear babbling brook
Cursing your name – Diamantina – and the route which we took.
Peter Lawrence
Victorian Alps March 1997
There were three Ladies equestrian
Met us three F.A.R.T.S. pedestrian
They drank all our wine
And allowed us to dine
At O’Keefe’s – what a hell of a mess we’re in!
Peter, Bob & Terry ….. 13-4-89
O’Keefe’s Hut
Jagungal – Big Bogong
King of the Mountains!
How many times have we had to pass
on nearby plains
you covered with cloud
or we with days too few
to climb your slopes
and admire your view?
At last we’ve ascended
and watched the eagles fly
seen peaks and ranges
we’ve travelled by
in misty shades
of green and blue
those ancient mountains
which are ever new
Round Mountain, Tabletop,
Kerries and Main Range too
not forgetting Grey Mare
to name a few.
A glint of silver
from the hut on Grey Mare Hill
soon we’ll be there
enjoying the evening still.
Around the fire
with cup in hand
no more lovely place
in all the land.
And the greatest landmark
across valley long
is King of the Mountains
the Big Bogong.
Peter Lawrence
Grey Mare Hut
Kosciusko National Park
March 1992
Bleuet, Bleuet burning bright
in the darkness of the night
with faces round you barely seeing
the tasty treat that’s come to being.
Atop your hissing rings of blue
bubbles a delicious stew
-who would think so far from home
there’d be pasta sauce from Bologne?
No connecting hoses pumping air
into fuel tanks, then despair….
has it lit? – oh dear! – oh me!
I could end in the cemetery.
No searching for a seasoned log
then working at it like a dog
until it catches, belching smoke
eyes streaming even as I choke.
Your shiny arms held to the side
as deep within my pack you hide
unfold to embrace the blackened pan
And warm the heart of any man.
With turn of knob and strike of match
you’re ready for another batch
of tea, or soup or even dinner
– it seems with gas we’re on a winner!
Bleuet, Bleuet burning bright
in the darkness of the night,
blue tongues dart from lips of steel
as watching over you I kneel.
While others cook a different way
faithful to you I’ll always stay;
on many a walk you’ve proved to me
gas is what comes naturally!
Peter Lawrence
Cleve Cole Hut, Mt Bogong, Victoria
March l998
We come into this lonely haven
To escape the hectic fray
To sit and think, unshaven
And idly pass the day.
As I sit outside the blackened cabin
On Pretty Plains cemented
I’m thankful for the time we’re havin’
From a busy life demented.
No cars or phones or dogs a-yapping
No mowers to disturb the peace
No sirens, screeches or noisy rapping
Out here, all those cease.
Instead, in this tranquil vale
The loudest sound is silence
The city drone begin to pale
To the ears there is no violence.
The river ripples like gentle rain
There’s a rush of wind in the trees
The crickets have started up again
Strange…there seems to be no bees.
The currawongs call from the wooded rise
The whipbird stings the air
Frisky wrens dart from branch to branch
Twittering without a care.
The wattle bird his voice has found
( He almost sounds distressed )
Of all the avian songs around
His seems the most unblessed.
The crickets chirp and blowies buzz
The march flies practise their art
A sleeper in the nearby hut does
Let slip a wheezy fart.
As the sun goes down and the tin roof creaks
More often than not it pours
And thru the night the walker sleeps
Despite the chorus of snores.
When I return to my usual life
To the worry and the pain
If I need I can escape the strife
And think of Pretty Plain.
Terry Linsell
Pretty Plain Hut
March 3, 1999.
It ran down our necks
And flew up our noses
Our duds were just like a drain
It couldn’t have been worse
Had it come out of hoses….
Stuff the Bloody Rain!
It dampened our spirits
And made us depressed
It drummed on the roof – what a pain!
Old Noah himself
Would have been so distressed…..
Stuff the Bloody Rain!
We could write lots more verses
Like a Banjo or Lawson
We could make our bid for fame
But it’s driving us crazy
And short tempers it’s causin’…..
Stuff the Bloody Rain!
Terry Linsell 13/4/89
O’Keefe’s Hut
The billies sing their song against my knees~
As I walk in the night air cold
To the gully hiding amongst the trees
In search of Liquid Gold.
Terry Linsell
Oldfields
March 1994
( The Bottom Line )
Bushwalkers are a hardy bunch
They’ll walk in any weather
On muesli bars and nuts they munch
And onward go forever.
They rise before the sun is up
And down a hasty breakfast
Not for them a second cup
Their haste is almost reckless.
You’ll never see them dilly dally
Or stop each hour for smoko
They add each K towards their tally
And never take a photo.
And when the sun completes its arc
Our weary walker rests at last
In his tent so small and dark
Beneath the constellations vast.
But Hark! Is there no other breed
That practises the walking arts?
Those who follow another creed?
Yes! I present to you the FARTS!
The FARTS are Artful Ramblers
Who rarely rise ere noon
They choose their route like gamblers
And dinner is never too soon.
They always carry too much food
Their packs are very heavy
Always in a happy mood
Their stops are very many.
But the FARTS are getting old and bent
They’re no longer in their prime
That is why they did invent
The ruse they call “The Bottom Line”.
They use it when the spur’s too long
Or when the clouds are threatening rain
They know they should be pushing on
But what’s the use of pain?
The aim of a FART is to enjoy the stroll
To have a real good time
To fill the hours with banter droll
Yes that’s The Bottom Line.
When they call it quits after only five miles
And Peter rings the dinner bell
Terry looks at Bob and smiles
This is it mate……..TBL !
When Peter wants to pass the hut
And camp in some windy hell
Bob and Terry cry out “ but
What about TBL?!”
These bushwalkers are a tardy bunch
They love to wine and dine
To relax in the sun over a leisurely lunch
For the sake of The Bottom Line.
Terry Linsell
March 1998
(Started at Cleve Cole Memorial Hut, Bogong National Park, Victoria)
My shoulders are older
My breath’s running short
My knees are like creaking old gates.
As I sit on this boulder
On the hill I’ve just fought
I see it in each of my mates.
My back’s now all seized up
My eyesight’s grown dim
That which was firm is now limp.
Looking up from my cup
I focus on him –
That once proud old FART’s now a wimp.
I remember the day
Without trouble or strife
Doing twenty K walks just for fun.
Now it causes dismay
That the meaning of life
Is a rest day outside in the sun.
Nearly fifty years old
Midlife crises I’ve seen
Work and family demands never cease.
As the body grows old
Mountains have always been
The place where I come for release.
And I guess I’ll accept
That I’ve slowed down somewhat
But I won’t stay just one of the mob.
While the huts are still kept
And good health is my lot
I’ll go rambling with Terry and Bob.
Peter Lawrence
(with a lot of help from his friends)
Oldfield’s Hut, Kosciusko National Park
March 1994
We had come by way of Davey’s Hut
After walking from the gate
Spent a night in Kidmans too
Huddled around the grate.
Our plans* were loose and quite relaxed
Maps lay around us scattered
We were in the mountains once again
And that was all that mattered.
‘Twas gravity that beat us in the end
We headed down the River
Keen to view this brand new hut
Our hearts were all aquiver.
Well here we are in this pleasant abode
We should have moved on but couldn’t
We stowed our packs and upped our feet
Stone the crows —- who wouldn’t?!
We’ve seen the remains of bridges and huts
Amongst them Constances and Reids
We followed the track to Tolbars Creek
But our goal did not achieve.
This hut is great, our thanks is high-
Only one thing we can’t abide……
Would somebody please release from the flue
the woodpecker trapped inside!
* Alternative reading…….”bowels”
Terry Linsell
Burrungubugge Shelter
March 1993
F our K’s from O’Keefe’s
A lone in the dark almost
R eady to give up –
T hree brave souls slogged on
S aved by Jil’s coffee cup.
Bob Taylor 13- 4- 89
O’Keefe’s Hut
There were three lads a farty
Who paddled & ate all hearty
Until at O’Keefe’s they stopped
And geriatrics they scoffed
And had a hearty farty party.
Composed 13- 4- 89
Judith Harvie.
O’Keefe’s Hut
We arrived at Gray Mare cold and disheartened,
Having followed the footsteps through ice and through snow,
Of whom we presumed were three lovely young maidens…
Only to find the embers aglow.
We read in the log-book the names of the three,
Drowning our sorrows in a hot cup of tea,
And yearned for their warmth and their sweet company…
And Damien wrote of his Wendy.
We were stuffing our packs ready to go,
When suddenly there she was in the snow,
So white and so pure, her features aglow…
We knew she just had to be Wendy.
We supported and comforted her, now in no haste
Brushing her eyes and the snow from her face,
Caressing her breasts and the curve of her waist…
We loved our snow-maiden Wendy.
Stephen Prescott ….April 1986
Grey Mare Hut
PS This verse refers to a snowmaiden we made outside Grey Mare Hut (see FARTS Photos). We were caught with the results of heavy snow falls a few days earlier. TL 2006
