Heading past Stratford, past Briagolong
(Briagolong means 'welcome': 'Welcome,
Briagolong; and bring your dog along.')
where the road's so sheathed in trees, dapple strobes
zebra-striped intensity, hypnotic
op-art of the boonies in flickershow;
and, cut into stony hills, the causeway
falls away - both edges would take a truck -
save 'Culloden' is 4 by 4 country.
Turn left by that proud, Scot-erected sign,
park by steps dropping steep down to Blue Pool,
ravine theater mountain water bowls,
lithograph dream, the pillared rocks tree-clad,
(add pergola fancy folly to taste)
with Renoir folks upon the gravel bank
a few swimmers in the treacling dark green.
Many decades back Bralakaulung bathed;
then it was lower, before the bank dammed -
such perfect cultural facility.
Well, there we were in the cool of the pool,
Joy commenting on freedom from March flies;
but what was struggling on the meniscus?
I said a hover-fly; Joy saw a bee;
and so we had to shepherd her to shore,
rather whoosh-waft gently till she grounded;
or what would Dr Seus' ghost think of us,
from vantage in the moral heights of mind,
or the immortal Who-hearing Horton,
channeling deep hosts of Bralakaulung.
....................
The pic taken just before we left, the little theater emptied.
Beats me why Scots would celebrate 'Culloden' - but then the Anglo Saxons have 'The Battle of Maldon', I suppose, and Brits, 'The Charge of the Stupid Brigade'.
Folly - I mean an artist might add one as invention, as in many of those old lithographs.
Yes, we 'seem' to be 'winning' with our insecticides - cut out quite a percentage of flying insects, I believe. Fewer March Flies, but then fewer bees and fruit fertilizing flies too. I've hardly seen anything round here in butterflies but cabbage-white.
