Visitors to Strathbogie see
Verdant hills of rolling green
Vast tors shaped fantastically
Amongst which sprites roam unseen
The tales are told of ancient times
When across the landscape and in the glens
First Nations travelled along song lines
For sustenance, spirit and their ken
Their spectres still hunt the Tableland
Taking what’s needed leaving the rest
Some of us glimpse their wraithlike bands
Ghosts flitting through trees as spirit mist
Their home the forest barely survives
The existence they shared quickly fades
Both cut down by lethal scythes
They fell like wheat to harvest blades