How long have you stood there,

by whose hand were you made?

Your slabs were rough hewn,

but carefully laid

into place, long ago,

still standing but weathered,

where a drover’s horse

was maybe once tethered.

Tell me, did bushrangers 

ever ride by you?

Did farmers’ children 

once sit astride you?

What stories you’d whisper

of history and such,

of old pioneers

whose memories we touch.

Photo courtesy of Gina Pestana