Heather
Those That Came Before
By Robin Northover
In Kilmore, as the sun goes down
And the evening shadows lengthen, darkening the town,
In the silence of a moment where time has ceased to be
There is movement in the twilight for those with eyes to see.
There is movement, there are whispers, and murmuring and more,
The nightly ghostly gathering of those that came before.
In Kilmore as the sky grows dark
There’s a rustle of the leaves on the trees in Hudson Park
And a hush that stills the traffic and quiets the night bird’s song
Where the shadows merge and mingle in a moving, living throng.
There are bullockies and drovers, and settlers by the score,
As the land gives up its memory of those that came before.
In Kilmore, as the evening fills
You can hear the clap of rhythm-sticks along the nearby hills
And feel the ground a-tremble to the stamp of dancing feet
As the old ones re-assemble to trade and sing and meet
And the long-gone Wurrunjerri hold corroboree once more
The dark-skinned folk who were the first of those that came before.
In Kilmore, as the daylight fades
All the old forgotten corners come to life with shades
And along beside the Sydney Road the drover’s campfire gleams
And the diggers trudge on northwards towards their golden dreams.
And once again the Anzacs go marching off to war
Amid the shadows and the echoes of those that came before.
In Kilmore, as the night takes hold
They stop and stare around them, all these pioneers of old
And before they slowly fade away, as fade away they must,
They look around to see once more the land they left in trust
They look around and gaze on us with wonder and with awe,
For we are but the hopes and dreams of those that came before.
