White Woman Dreaming
I dream of being there that wonderful dawn
at Farm Cove in "New Sydney Town"
The Kookaburras calling where the "Toaster" now stands,
the Rockwarblers "kissing" among boulders further down
At the "Rocks" Scribbly Gums were full of Varied Sitellas
while below all the convicted women and fellas
were stunned as, ne'er in their lives had heard
such magic as the mimicry of the Superb Lyrebird
Where the AMP building stands tall today
the Gymea Lillies and Banksias once held their sway
on the bush floor the Scrubwrens would "chit chit" and play
and in treetops Koalas still napped all the day
I imagine the cool of the fern lined Tank Stream
and Fig trees and Blackbutts where Bell Miners chime
made a pleasant backdrop for the local Bowerbird's lair
yes, the Regent, who dwelt there that time
The entrancing magic of the new dawn chorus
revealed countless species yet to be named all before us
The Parma Wallabies dashed around lower George Street
where the Cadigal people you would perchance meet
If you happened to wander up to Martin Place
you might have met more folk from that other race
not foolishly proud, just getting by as best
as one would imagine in this giant virgin forest
I dream of being there in "New Sydney Town"
where no steel had yet touched a tree
and Musk Lorrikeets wheeled o'er Elizabeth Street
making vivid displays as they called happily
Topnot Pigeon flocks, hundreds strong, made an incredible sight
over what is now choked with traffic by day and all night
and whereupon Australia Square can be found
the Grey Kangaroo mobs used to abound
All along Pitt Street where the gums were in blossom
every hollow contained a small glider or possum
and the spotted quolls still reigned predatory supreme
or perhaps a goanna on the banks of the long lost Tank Stream
I dream of that time in "New Sydney Town"
every time that I stroll 'round the Quay
of a morning's delight when Golden Whistler calls
announced their challenge from every tree
But then the new noises replace those old lost calls
and the Tank Stream no longer tumbles and falls
between green mossy boulder and pleasant cool glade
as all I can see is now mostly man made
My vision has faded to newer women and fellas
all prisoners now of employers, gadjets, auto tellers
with ne'er a moment to dream or perchance cogitate
on a magic morn lost in time: January 27, 1788
Ricki Coughlan
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