INTRODUCTION

PROPERTIES

Poems -
Tasmania's Rural Cultural Landscapes

Tasmanian Winter Landscape

Hawthorn hedges box up paddocks
leaf-poor in this winter cold
stripped to their essential elements
storing sap-ful energies
for springtime frolics in the warmer months.
Tasmanian winter woollies
are worn by cattle
fluffy huddles found in warm spots
beneath trees by walls or buildings
where the icy chill does not blow.

Convict hands were employed
across this landscape
walled it bridged it roaded it
no wages but still no labour of love
from a generation of felons
who left a legacy on the land
still honoured by farmers travellers and tourists today.

Thin green pickings are found by cattle and sheep
flags of white corellas wave
from the tops of bare branched intruders
standing side-by-side with thin leafed eucalypts
the patchy green statements of belonging
native-born but shoved aside
by the determined European onslaught.

Tin-roofed shearing sheds
are sewn into the landscape
by wire fences and stone walls
and encircled by post-and-rail yards
for detaining stock, convict-like.

And here and there a country estate
imposing dominating
a display of wealth and privilege
old family old history old money.

Tasmania has been shaped by English ways
redesigned to fulfil a fantasy of empire
a home away from home
a long way from home.
Winter’s echoes are loudest
cold wet and green
broken by patches of ploughed brown field
and the rushing white of water.

18 July 2009

The Road To Jericho

On a quiet still winter’s day
the hum of labouring trucks
hauling up the Midland Highway
reaches St James’ churchyard Jericho
where generations lie undisturbed.
There are signs of decay
a passing of time
a moving on.

The hall has seen better days
locked now
weatherboards patched and peeling
once the recreational heart
at the centre of town
now just an occasional use
warranting a new power board
with extra trip fuses.

School House is the latter
not the former
no education here for a generation
new farming technology
stripping the workforce bare
no need for families
no place for kids.

The older generations lived long here
permanent residents now
Sophia Row 91
Edward Oldmixon Bisdee 93
Edward and Rosa Harrison 90
Edward Knight 89
horizontally housed at St James’
plenty of space still for descendents
though their wait maybe long
unless water and irrigation and investment
can bring a new gold rush here
a 21st century green rush of growth.

Perhaps then new feet will tread the boards
new voices will fill the air
new plots will be needed in the graveyard
around the church
in the centre of the town.

4 August 2009

How Do I Fence Thee? Let me count the ways...

How do I fence thee? Let me count the ways.
I fence thee best with wire and post
Strainers of treated pine are used the most
Though big tree trunks were corners in olden days.
Post and rail fences are good for the horse,
I have used steel droppers and metal pipes
And wire – barbed, plain, electric – of many types
And make fences with blackberry, hawthorn and gorse.
Stone and rock walls in Tasmania abound
But ringlock is better for keeping in sheep.
While old metal gates can also be found
And seven-strand wire is best where it’s steep,
In the end we use whatever is sound
Our farming judged by the fences we keep.

30 August 2009

Death of a Eucalypt

A solitary sentinel in a sea of green
the lone eucalypt stands ravaged
by time and wind and drought
around its base the exhausted limbs of life
the fallen few
casualties of gravity and old age
There remains now just a shadow
a decayed and broken trunk
burnt split and splintered
supporting the final fingers of life
a last hurrah
one or two sturdy limbs
a crown of green
a wish a whisper
then silence.

28 August 2009

Midland Trees

Paddocks of scarecrow trees
dressed in silver foil
shining
resistant to possum
but defenceless
against the creeping death
of drought.
Vertical firewood
still uncut or split
a eucalypt genocide.
Some fight on,
green shoots
tipping a branch
or spilling from a trunk
but they are doomed.
In their place
green swarthes of pines
fill in the gaps
and march in lines
across the landscape
starkly green
against the brown
of the hills
and the grey
of the arboreal graveyard
around them.

16 April 08

Hawthorns

Hawthorns line up in rows
waving their stripped-down spiky fingers
at the bright winter landscape.
Inside spring sap lies dormant
lined up on starting blocks
ready to catapult leaves and flowers
into the Tasmanian summer sun.
These are boundary riders
edging and shaping this rural landscape
creating a new England
along the lines of the old.

But like so many interlopers here
a wildness soon takes hold
the melancholy quiet of this place
loosening ties
removing jackets
replacing European civility
with antipodean brashness
until hawthorn hedges lose all pretentions
and take on their Tasmanian form
usually straight
not quite correct
unkempt at the edges
prone to wildness
red-face alive in the summer
close-up shop in the winter.

1 August 2009

Flailing The Hedge

Oh Murderous Flail!
The hedge is guilty of no crime
but its growth and wildness
have driven you to action
you drag your spinning chains
to thrash and smash
like a barber with a lawn mower
you take the easy way out.
Short back and sides all round.
Never mind the berries and the birds
you wait til the sap is down
then pounce!

Oh for the care of the hedge layer
carefully cutting the pleachers
stitching the rows just so
a work of living art
layered like a Pisa Tower wedding cake
a celebration to last a lifetime.
No twisted trunks no smashed branches
nothing battered and bruised
no blunt frayed rope-ends exposed
to elemental disease
left higgledy piggledy.

Oh Murderous Flail!
you attack the landscape
and brutalise the boundaries of our lives.
The economic rationalist in you
has triumphed
your effervescent efficiency a sight to behold
attractive to the counters and controllers
of purse strings.
Give us back some soul!
Give us back some artistry!
Give us back our heritage!
Give us back our hedges.

1 September 2009

Stone Wall

I imagine myself as a stone in a wall
just one rectangle or square
snug-fitted and flat
playing my part
in a vertical jig-saw puzzle
standing as permanent marker
in the property pages of rural Tasmania.

I have impressive lineage
born in a flush of molten fluids
cracked from my mountain mother
adolescent rebelliousness
sending siblings far and wide
to populate pasture and provide
elements for soil – the very lifeblood
of life itself.

Funny now to be reassembled
fitted together
put back straight and tall
a mini-mountain of man
wild things tamed into shape
with form and function and purpose.
We don’t interbreed
sandstone basalt dolerite
we are easy bedfellows
but who has heard of
sandsalt or dolerstone or baserite?
We guard our features
keep our looks
provide patterns and shapes
pleasing to the eye
and nooks and crannies for secrets.
We gain respect as solid citizens
and remain loyal for ages.

I guess I am cosy and content
walled in amongst fellow travellers
marching silently and motionless
across the landscape.

8 October 2009

Stone Walled

Tasmanian sheep are BIG
and tough
a little bit rough
it must be the cold wet days
they grow round and fat hearty and hale
we’ve tried all sorts of ways
to keep them in.
To no avail.
We’ve been through the whole
Three Little Pigs routine.
Ringlock?
They huffed and puffed
and crashed the fence down.
Electric?
Any amount of shocking behaviour was made
but a sneeze was enough to short out
that barricade.
Barbed wire just seemed to prick their conscience
and we could follow their trail
from white fluffy clues
strung along the line like a long snowy tail.
Nope. It just wouldn’t do.
Only one thing worked, Mr Wolf.
Solid, heavy stone, Mr Wolf.
That stopped them.
Layer upon layer
and straight as a die
solid heavy stonework.
I’d sit and watch them try
battering their skulls
kicking up their heels
baa-ing their chests
they’d follow each other
like lambs to the slaughter
until senseless and stunned
they’d stop to recover
unable to escape
bemused and unsure.
We’d managed to contain them
we’d managed to restrain them
we’d managed to leave them all
stone-walled.

8 October 2009

Willows

Willows strangle and tangle
set up home mid-stream
crash the banks
over crowd
over grow
over take
dam the flow
become top-heavy with their own self-importance.
Willow branches over reach and over stretch
intertwine their limbs like first-time lovers
lustful for the touch and tug of intimate parts.
Willows are intruders
sucking the life-blood from creeks and rivers
relegating local born natives
to a bit-part in their own production
part drama part comedy part tragedy.
Willows have become parasites
attached leech-like to our arteries.
But will they drop off when full
or continue to become bloated
with their own success?

2 August 2009

English Oak

The oak is a substantial tree
with tree-sized limbs
launching out at right angles
and a crown
slipping over the ears
of a king.
It is the monarch
it is the deity
it is the numero uno.
It has fuelled the fires
supported the constructions
and launched the ships
of a nation.
Pretenders attempt to usurp
but are out-grown
and out-lasted.
Oak prevails.

3 June 2009

Foxglove

Hidden in shady corners
this candle of bells chimes ‘I am here’.
Each flower gapes
a baby bird asking for more.
How elegant the fox might be
with paws inside this purple parcel.
What might it have round its neck
a stole perhaps?
Foxgloves gather in groups to show off
dancing with the wind
to attract bees to the honeypot.
No wallflower these no retiring maiden
the foxglove stands up to be counted.

4 June 2009

Richmond Bridge

Every stone was put in place
by rough convict hands
not some abstract machinery of state
but a real person
transported from loving hearts and home
to a building site
on this river somewhere.

How did they do those arches?
Six horizontal half-columns supporting traffic
each stone gathered and fashioned
and put in place nicely.
Did they have bandaids for cuts
and ice-packs for crushed fingers?
The wages bill was low
in creation of this historic monument.

This is a proud legacy of empire
an inspiration of colony
a coming of age for pioneers and settlers
needing to bridge the gap
between one side and the other.
Society flourished on the back of convicts
the labourers and carriers
and constructors of history.

26 March 2009

Ross Bridge

Methinks this is more a monument
than important infrastructure of state.
This pretty bridge is weighed down by names.
Governor Arthur, Colonel, Superintendent Turner, Captain,
their place in history chiselled in sandstone
both upstream and down.
Convict stonemasons chipped their way to freedom
while fellow inmates pecked at the stone.
They’ll like it pretty (Colbeck)
ornamentation is our road to emancipation (Herbert)
whether LXIX to Hobart Town
or XLVIII to Launceston.
And so it was.

These arches designed by John Lee Archer
are emblazoned with frivolity
celtic symbols animals plants birds
and a where’s wally for the governor’s face.
Wagons coaches cars and trucks
appreciate its sturdy limbs
its boots stuck fast in MacQuarie mud.
This bridge is going nowhere
and hasn’t since 1836
when perhaps designers builders and architects
let free their imaginations
and dared to design for both form and function
a structure to mark the passage of time.

30 August 2009

Bridge Over The MacQuarie

The bridge is smiling this morning
finally doing the job it was built for
carrying cars over the MacQuarie.
The river is in flood.

Deeper wider faster
the MacQuarie has broadened its horizons
washed away the dusts of drought
and is nudging up to the bridge
becoming intimate again with its girders
tickling its toes
kissing the underside of its span.
The bridge has become wet
in its excitement
after a long dry spell.

The river will rage and bubble and boil
for a few days yet
fed by fingers finding their way
down paddocks and gullies.
The bridge will remain resolute
fixed on its mission
open all hours
determined to keep its head above water.

21 August 2009

An Old Building Dies

History cannot pay the bills
so an old building dies
the weight of generations
bringing down the roof.
Like an old man with ailments
it cannot pay its way
it loses its purpose
struggles with all the new fangled things
that do not fit
that are too long
that are too tall
that are too wide
that are too heavy.
New machines need new sheds –
that’s the way of it.

So neglect caves in a wall
a storm takes off the tin
a beam cracks and splits
exposed weathered and weakened.
One by one the walls fall
bit by bit the roof sinks
until finally
it’s spirit gone
it’s back broken
it’s time is up
and the old building rests horizontal
a graveyard to memories of times gone by
testament to the passing parades of history.
Bounty hunters may reclaim some bones
for inclusion in a skeleton somewhere.

28 August 2009

Shearing Shed

The old tin shed
creaks and cracks
as it grows into the day.

The chill of the morning
is displaced by afternoon sun
which expands the shed with its warmth.

Under the beams
are episodes in the lives
of sheep and men.
Shearers bent all day
removing coats
for human backs
and beds and hands.
Sheep will be turned out
lighter and cooler
and bloodied occasionally
ready to go again
to grow again
to return again.

The shed stands alone
a statement in the landscape
a sharp comment
that man has dominion here
despite all natural evidence
to the contrary.

25 September 2007, Oatlands

St Mary’s Church, Haley

This most English corner of Tasmania
where the blackbird sings
and bluebells mark the site
where Lillie Carter buried
her father in 1901
her husband in 1940
and herself in 1964.
Surrounded by oak trees and hawthorn hedges
the church remains
and reminds of another country
far away.
What lives did these people leave?
Why did they come here?
Old now
but forever
an eternity of blackbird song
cool breeze
fading stone
memories.
Their part is done
and remains to be seen
in this quiet corner of old England.

1 November 2008

Callington Mill at Oatlands

Erect and sandstoney
the wind mill at Oatlands
stands proud.
But it doesn’t quite wind
and it doesn’t quite mill
anymore
and no-one grows oats
in the land nearby.
Sheep and gorse do well
but don’t make
very good bread.

16 April 2008