I was told as a little girl,
how you were flung from Wollumbin,
hurtled, tumbled through the sky to
land near the Logan River.
It was to my childish mind, a story of adventure
Grown-up truth saddens me now when I see your silhouette,
when the Sun turns its back on you then
illuminates your isolation relentlessly the next day.
Aloof, you always seem. Are you lonely?
Is it a friendless existence or are you proud to be
a solitary reminder of the Dreamtime near the river?
Since then, you’ve been tunneled,
your heart excavated for roads.
Maybe that’s why your edges are sharp
and your countenance stern.
So, please know, you have a friend
who thinks of you often, loves you and is sorry for
past ignorance and hurt.