Wednesday, 2 March 2016
Fraser Island (revised)
Miranda, on her magical island,
heard music in the crash of wave,
high, clear notes in the treetops,
dim timpani resound from distant cave.
Surely here she dwelt with Prospero,
their realm undiluted sand.
No pebble, rock, clay or loam
stains symphonic Fraser Island.
Music softly and sweetly sings
from serpentine streams so clear,
so unclouded and untouched
they could be water or could be air.
Music murmurs in the mangroves,
in the cobalt blue of upland lake,
in banksia grove and pandanas palm,
in forests of coastal she-oak.
It crescendos in the rainforest's
green palms that densely entwine,
stands of white towering blackbutt
partnering spotted Kauri pine.
Twice daily the eastern wave sings
as she washes from her sand
the countless tracks of 4 wheel drives
that scurrying, scour the land
and even though tomorrow
the traffic will again resume,
closely following the tide will sing
her lyrical, relentless, cleansing tune.
O gently, gently, twice a day,
the attendant tide comes in
and joyously singing as she goes
makes the beach pristine again.
Then the magic that Miranda heard
ripples or crashes in the sea,
or high in towering treetops
sings songs of exquisite beauty.