This house is strong with strength of stone, hand hewn
from slopes that sleep nearby; a silent gorge,
rock gouged. Such grants of life its settlers won.
Each stone was cut, its place in mind. Solid
were those that builded here, pragmatic men.
They had their dreams. Did they not sail across
the world in hope? Intrepid too, they stood
as proud as sun-drenched bluestone blocks they raised
to lock the years away while growing old.
Brooklands, thus built, those years ago, still stands
in place, aloof between a thirst of creeks
too weak to reach the sea, now dammed above
by greed; its livelihood withheld anon.
We bought this house, or rather it bought us.
It took on loan our lives, in trust that we
would care for it as others had before.
Its promise? Peace, blue wrens and silent hiss
of snakes to counterbalance Paradise.
We seek to clothe ourselves in search of truth.
We too have built, in transit left our mark,
improving Nature’s work with half an eye
upon our place in time. We seek to change
this land we call our own with pride. It’s not,
for ownership lies on a road to hell,
and takes us there. Our efforts are in vain.
Ozymandian hopes soon turn to dust,
At best, we leave our spirit in this place.
Our days are brief. We sometimes look too far.