Up on the hill there is a house of stone
Whose heart is carved from rocks wrenched from the ground.
It stands foursquare, aloof and all alone,
Arising from the land to which it's bound.
Its craftsmen, though long dead and now unknown,
Still dwell within its walls, and still the sound
Of hammers haunts the reaches of the night;
Each stone hand-picked to lock the others tight
The quarry lies a short stroll up the dene.
Its guts, torn from the belly of the hill,
Left jagged scars, a miniature ravine,
But Nature now conceals the violent spill
With brambles, boxthorn and a salve of green,
A haven for small birds that flit, then still
Their wing, alert for feral cat and fox,
And hawks that hover, high above the rocks.
Its stone-girt pool holds deep and ancient thoughts
Concealed beneath the virid algal bloom,
Secreted through the jagged lines of quartz
To cool this place and soothe away that gloom
That grips at times. Its silence soon transports
The mind from worldly troubles and small fears,
Displacing them with solitude and calm,
A secret healing place on Brooklands farm.
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Author Notes
Virid: bright green
Our farmhouse was built from stone quarried on the property by early South Australian settlers in the middle of the 19th century.. There are views from the old quarry down to the Great Southern Ocean. It is just a 5-minute walk along a gully lined with ancient almond trees, olives and thorny acacia. Those lucky enough to inhabit the silence of this magical place for a while gradually become aware of small birds such as blue wrens, silvereyes and red-browed finches, flitting from bush to bush. Kangaroos live there too and I have occasionally seen an echidna busily foraging amongst the grasses.
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