Bellbirds jangled in the misty eddies below. Chattering rosella’s shot from tree to tree like red flares. Squawking white cockatoos dueled over the vast grey gap. Striped brown wattle birds coughed and nibbled at yellow banksias.
I strolled back, past the name etched trees and rocks, strangely reluctant to leave as night closed in. It’s getting dark early these days.
Words to walk with:
From To an Echo on the Banks of the Hunter by Charles Harpur
"I HEAR thee, echo! And I start to hear thee
With a strange shock, as from among the hills
Thy voice, reverb ring in swift murmurs near me,
Dies down the stream, or with its gurgle low
Blends whisperingly, until my bosom thrills
With gentle tribulations that endear thee,
But speak not of the present. Twas as though
Some spirit of the past were then a-near thee,
Bringing back days of life’s regretted spring,
Waking wild recollections, to evince
How strong the ties that bind me to each thing
Loved, though long since."