Bungonia
Gorge
- You call it grand;
- 'Look down," you say, and stand and stare,
- Half fearful of the darkness there,
- Of limestone drop and driving air,
- And grip the rail
- With fingers chill as Autumn host
- And know yourself a fragment tossed
- Within the arms of space and lost
- Yes, it is grand:
- 'Look up," you say, and point to where
- You gripped the rail and paused to stare,
- A pygmy on the summit there;
- And turn away,
- To clamber where the ages slept
- And changing time her torment left
- In granite tears within the cleft.
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- Bernard W Peach
- "Into The Blue"
- June 1950
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Blind
Child At Echo Point
- The sun is a lamp to your hand
- Guiding along dark corridors
- To a distant, splendid land;
- Warming the wind on your face
- That breathes the unseen
- Brown rock, the green tree grace;
- Bearing a hint of incense, too,
- Of wet wood moss and drowning leaf
- And eucalyptus drawn through
- A sieve of spiralled air;
- Child, how much more do you see
- than the fat man standing there
- Who turns away, regretting his taxi fare.
-
- Bernard W Peach
- "Into The Blue"
- November 1961
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