The Creek

The creek from the high country flowing ever brown
Babbles in the scrubland by the mountain town
On it's way to the river to the far ocean bay
In a tongue never silent by night or by day

In a place too stony for root crops or silage or hay
The roos and the wallabies in the twilight gray
By day in the high scrub often hidden from sight
Drink before hopping downhill to greener pastures for the night

People like Nature's Seasons to life come and from life go
But it cannot be said of the creek that time becomes it's foe
For milleniums of centuries it has flowed with a will
To the far away river from the foot of the hill

Very old in the age of the dinosaurs and the dreaming time
It has inspired the makers of story and rhyme
To the river that flows to the far ocean shore
It has flowed forever and will forever more.