I like to go where it’s slow,
where silence never ends,
where ancient mountains
become my best friends.
Where eagles nest,
I like to sit and just be,
where land has no limits
and where I am free.
Where do I go? by James Aitchison
The view from Pugilists’ Hill, Flinders Ranges. Photo by Ginette Pestana
The mighty ramparts rise above the plain,
where once the plains were sea.
And you might think how harsh it looks,
yet beautiful it seems to me.
A world of red soil, stone and silence,
of ancient legends told ’round fires,
of peace and fascination
to my tired city eyes.
Flinders Ranges, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
When will water this way come
and fill this ancient creek?
There’s been no rain hereabouts
for many a long, long week.
When drought breaks the creek will rush,
a torrent raging by,
but for now it’s turned to dust —
no clouds have blessed the sky.
While in the east, it’s flooding,
and towns and farms are lost.
Can these extremes of climate stop,
or has a line been crossed?
Dry creek bed, Flinders Ranges. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Australian Children’s Poetry 