THIS IS REALLY LIVING

The lake is a black velert canvas, dot painted with Bogong moths.
Brown trout glide through the surface, taking morsels in lazy quaffs.
The sky teal grey of the dawn, brushed lightly with pink in the east.
Autumn on the Bogong High Plains, is a time of beauty and feast.
Currawongs shriek at the dawn, telling all a new day has broken.
As my son and I sat there fishing, immersed in words unspoken.
Our lines a scratch on this painting, picture perfect as the bush can be.
The hand of nature has painted a picture of tranquility.

Sleek, fat Hereford cattle, puffing white fog in the air,
Come slowly to drink from this font, pristine beyond compare.
This source and lofty catchment of the water for our land,
That flows through mountain ranges, fertile plains and desert sand.
Oozing lifeblood to our soil, through veins and Murray artery,
Embraced by ancient Coorong, then spent, enveloped by the sea.
This ancient highland place, our countries lungs and heart;
Seeking breakfast for the family, we were the unfamiliar part.

I pondered on this thought and how special these times were.
To be sharing comradeship while with natures laws concur.
To be driven by primeval urge, to fish this lake to feed our band,
While building understanding of the nurturing of our land.
This custodial obligation, handed down from father to his son.
To be in this unspoilt natural shrine when day had just begun;
Be it ancient tribe or modern man, to share this place is spiritual.
How do you say, son, this place, this time, is really special?

My reverie is broken with, “I’ve got one, I’ve got one, wow.”
“Take it easy son, let him run and have some line, easy now,
Looks like you’ve hooked a big one, gently now I’ll hold the net.”
The line flashed taught, the rod bends low, concentration set.
The hunter fought and played his game, enthused in nature’s battle.
So to his quarry ran and jumped, to throw the hook and skedaddle.
The sleek brown trout, hooked, tormented, freedom seeking,
Till at last, breathless, beaten, with natures law a meeting.

Proud the youngster rebaits the hook, “now I’ll catch another one.”
Light, warmth and confidence, shared by son and one so young.
Warming spirits, giving hope, as shadows fade with rising sun.
Still my fervent hope was, that my son whose life had just begun;
That he could marvel at this scene, with generations not yet born.
To share the eerie spirit, of Bogong High Plains in the dawn.
That he might walk and fish, while with patient explanation giving,
Again my reverie is broken with, “Dad this is really living.”

Pikey.