Two days ago I mentioned here on my blog page that I had lived in an area prone to bushfires ~ The Blue Mountains of New South Wales.
The Blue Mountains was my first home, the area where I spent the first thirteen years of my life.
Many years later I still reflect on those thirteen years with feelings of immense nostalgia. I’m sure I could start a separate blog entitled something along the lines of “Memories of my Early Life; Growing up in The Blue Mountains” and never run short on content!
They were happy years, filled with magical discoveries, exploring, adventure and learning, back in the days when the world was young and I possessed not a care in the world. *sigh*
The famous Australian poet, Henry Lawson, penned the most perfectly descriptive poem about the Blue Mountains, which I would like to share with you today.
Henry Lawson is an Australian icon, born in Grenfell, N.S.W. in 1867. Henry departed this world at an extremely early age, in 1922. I’m certain that upon his demise he took with him many untold stories and poems about Australia.
Today’s photo is another oldie from my first photo album. ‘Tis a very young “me” again, this time taken at Echo Point, Katoomba, the lookout of the world famous “Three Sisters”.
I do hope you enjoy the poem. It was written in 1888, after Henry had spent a few years living in the Blue Mountains himself.
The poem was copied from the book, “The World of Henry Lawson”, a book I discovered and purchased in 1983. No internet links provided for this one! 😉
I’ll leave you now with Henry Lawson, who is far more capable of describing the breathtaking landscape of the Blue Mountains, more lyrically than I would ever be capable of! 🙂
The Blue Mountains
Above the ashes straight and tall,
Through ferns with moisture dripping,
I climb beneath the sandstone wall,
My feet on mosses slipping.
Like ramparts round the valley’s edge
The tinted cliffs are standing,
With many a broken wall and ledge,
And many a rocky landing.
And round about their rugged feet
Deep ferny dells are hidden
In shadowed depths, whence dust and heat
Are banished and forbidden.
The stream that, crooning to itself,
Comes down a tireless rover,
Flows calmly to the rocky shelf,
And there leaps bravely over.
Now pouring down, now lost in spray
When mountain breezes sally,
The water strikes the rock midway,
And leaps into the valley.
Now in the west the colours change,
The blue with crimson blending;
Behind the far Dividing Range
The sun is fast descending.
And mellowed day comes o’er the place,
And softens ragged edges;
The rising moon’s great placid face
Looks gravely o’er the ledges.