Ferns grow in the valley,
They block out sun and sky,
A dark and weathered hew of green,
Some natives passing by.
They make no fuss about their way,
And neither do they rush,
They stop to marvel at the stream
Which trickles ‘neath the brush.
Their mongrel boldly watches
For intruders in the scrub,
A baby sleeps on Mother’s back,
And dreams of witchetty grubs.
The air, so thick with pollen
Sinks into their lungs and then
As a grand bouquet bursts forth in mind,
They gently breathe again.
The trickling water calms their souls,
The luscious scene gives lift,
Through dense and fertile lands they roam,
‘mid ancient trees they drift.
These souls, they live in Eden,
They walk with God each day,
The breath of life flows through their lungs,
Great Nature guides their way.
And if I’d dare to wonder,
If I wish to be aware,
I’ll walk the paths where they have gone,
And I’ll tread softly there.
And as I tend the garden
Sweet remembrance will be mine
Of the wisdom which once filled my heart
As I walked ‘neath fig and vine.