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From: Vol.03 N.02 – Decolonisation and Geopoethics

Terrania Creek Fantasia

by Charles Freyberg

So overpowering was the draw of these trees that people risked their lives. A spirit of transformation emanated from the forest.

– Ian Cohen, Greens MLC 1997.


A raindrop’s coldness

clings to my cheek

then scatters to the breeze.

My eyes twist along

a jagged fallen tree trunk

torn open to reveal

a swirling of rings inside

an autobiography

turning to mulch, eaten by moss,

a circling of faces half forgotten

as a chatter breaks the drizzly silence.

Your face is the last, dear friend,

a loop of your words repeating

like drops of rain

searching for gaps in my coat,

their chill settles on my body’s warmth.

I try to squirm

as they enter me more deeply.


I got in a car.

I drove away.

Freeway, highway, town, fields –

until a signpost

a dirt road narrowing,

led me to this towering forest.

I searched for a place to enter –

a chink, a path ……


Inside the trunk’s sodden roughness,

lines meander wildly

unique as my thumbprint.

The pattern is the same – or does it change

just a little with each repetition?

Branches break away, bending,

almost ready to writhe,

until they disappear

into a strangle of vines

each leaf a variation on a heart

heavy with droplets

that glisten grey as spots of light

squeeze through the waving canopy.

The crack of a whip bird, then another,

unseen like the burping frogs.

Almost silence, just the breeze’s whisper

as you stare at me from the shadows,

and a brief smile of sunlight

dapples the crazy sculptured trunk.

Words joust again in a hiss of static.

My lungs hurt

as I draw on a cigarette.

A whip bird cracks,

the frogs are blowing rasberries.


I got in a car.

I drove out of the city.

The dirt road narrowed.

I found a chink

to enter this towering forest.

I walk on.


My smoke drifts in sunlight

as water pooled above

gathers through a gap in rock and falls

churning and pausing, pooling anew –

almost still, a moment of clarity

over pebbles rounded and shining like pearls

except for frothy circles

spreading larger as they spin,

expanding and vanishing

so quickly they’re always there,

renewing and repeating, larger and smaller,

a whisper against the water whooshing

through endlessly polished scales of brown,

a glimpse inside the rock’s black surface.

And always, like a distant drumming,

the sound of the nearby falls –

I look up and search for them in vain

as a whip bird cracks, the frogs burp.

I find instead a tree’s gigantic trunk

and follow it,

past staghorns, the scars of branches lost,

the turquoise tissues of lichen,

skipping shadows of leaves above,

as a bird swoops from layers of fern fronds.

The creek’s voices are bubbling together

like choristers scattered far and wide –

hums, whispers and basses,

a language that cannot be spoken,

but full of such patterns of feeling,

I begin to know what it’s saying.

Circles bubble on the pool

as I sense you beside me,

slowly breathing like me.

Then you vanish

except for your breath and thoughtfulness.

I rise to my feet ….

Published: July 2016
Charles Freyberg

is a Kings Cross poet and playwright. He regularly performs from his collection Dining at the Edge. He has also been published in Meanjin. His poetry features in Peter Urquhart’s the Experiment, a hybrid of dance, music and text, to be performed at the Sydney Conservatorium in August.

An Australian and international
journal of ecopoetry and ecopoetics.

Plumwood Mountain Journal is created on the unceded lands of the Gadigal and Wangal people of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, and to elders past, present and future. We also acknowledge all traditional custodians of the lands this journal reaches.