The Awakened Waratah
The rain that fell so soft and thin
Awoke the Park from deep within—
Brisbane Water stirred anew,
Its breath refreshed by silver dew.
And in one night, the blooms arose,
As if they heard the call that flows
From dawn’s first light, so faint, so fair,
They blossomed sweetly in the air.
My love—so pure, like waratah white—I placed you in a bowl of light,
A golden relic, worn by time,
Now filled with flowers in their prime:
The camellia’s fire, the clematis’ cheer—
Your faithful friends, now gathered near.
But gazing could not still my soul,
So out I took a page once whole,
An ancient score, now creased and worn,
And with my harmonica—boomerang-formed—
I played the song of days long passed,
And found, at last, amidst the vast
And noisy world, my quiet start—
The dustless truth within my heart.
—— A.G
The Sun of Western Australia
I often sing,
“The sun of Western Australia can heal my wounds,”
No matter how lost I am, or where I’m bound.
Who knew she crafts such sacred grace—
Creating life,
Breathing wonders through the forest’s quiet place.
Banksia cuneata, menziesii, rose mallee—
Why do they bloom without a single petal,
Yet still, possess such beauty?
Each stamen, each seed,
Is marked with divine notation—
The blueprint of the Creator’s work,
So subtle, yet so whole.
With a weary heart,
I once walked into your flowering land.
There, I did not go forward, nor did I turn back—
I simply stood still.
And time itself stood still with me,
In the golden sun of Western Australia.
—— A.G
My Cooktown Orchid
You, noble orchid, in hues of royal flame,
Your slender stems reach out in quiet grace.
They praise your beauty, speak your name—
Yet know not the will beneath your face.
For behind the bloom, soft and divine,
Lies a story carved by wind and tide—
Of struggle, of time, of roots that entwine,
Of dreams that would not be denied.
I place you in a blue-glazed jar from lands I knew,
So you no longer stand alone.
There, blue lotus of the wetlands bloom beside you,
And distant memories find their home.
The oyster brings gifts from the open sea,
The finger lime gleams from the forest’s heart—
Here, where the ocean meets the trees,
No pioneer shall stand apart.
For those who came from distant lands,
With hands of hope and eyes of flame,
Shall join the song with those who first
Called this eternal place by name.
—— A.G
I Dance in This Radiant Age
The iris is your gown of purity,
The rose, your breath of romance.
By the pink salt lake, your playful grace
Mirrors the charm of seasoned youth.
You, fragrant and full,
Are like the soil of Victoria—
Brimming with passion and artistry.
Sometimes, the clouds grow dark and low,
Shadowing my heart in gloom.
Yet I do not despair—
For the kookaburra’s laughter lifts me anew.
I’ve learned:
The harsher the ground, the brighter we bloom,
As the golden wattle sings to me
Of resilience and joy.
Warmth clings to me still,
Like wisteria’s tender embrace.
And no—
I do not dance alone in time,
For I belong to this brilliant, bustling age.
—— A.G