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