"THE GHOSTS OF ELSMORE RUN".

[Bernard de Silva]

"THE GHOSTS OF ELSMORE RUN."

Seems there is little left, to mark the old selectors holding,
but wire remnants, on rotted strainers, charred and bent.
Long gone fences, and the roadways, now only bushland,
and gorges, and the water hole, no bush life will frequent.

Now a section of a huge property, seldom visited like as not,
boundary markings long removed , remembered by no one.
Left a strange stillness, an almost total absence of all sound,
the realm of the spirit sentinels, the ghosts of Elsmore Run.

Silence of more than a century, on land the bush reclaimed,
long faded, any visions, of ochre painted bodies in the night.
Long passed on, the troopers, and the trackers, who rallied,
towards a glow in the heavens, a homestead burning bright.

Gone the echoes, long quieted, faded the screams of torment,
gone all clay painted warriors, stealthy assassins in the night.
Remaining only smoldering embers, no dwellings to be seen,
the scorched earth, and ashes, with no human forms in sight.

Who knows what thoughts, besieged the mounted horsemen,
in the stark light of that dawning, all those many years ago.
Who knows the thoughts of the trackers, leading marksmen,
to a rocky outcrop, nature's parapet, above the stream below.

Mists rising silent from the waters, as the tribal party rested,
all without cover, in stark relief, against the creek bed sand.
Each, whether grown male, female, or child, the plain target,
due for retribution, each trooper, with a carbine in his hand.

The messengers of vengeance, rough justice now dispensed,
volley after volley, fired from those lofty bastions overhead.
Till all life below was extinguished, as the echoes died away,
the sands below turned crimson, and a tribal clan lay dead.

There is always the guilt which follows slaughter, a remorse,
but blood that taints sand and water, will fade within the day.
Then ashes of the bodies, piled high upon that bush log pyre,
winds will blow and scatter,--- and all remains, will fade away.

A place forever tainted, though telltale signs are long erased,
bush denizens never tarry here, but pass swiftly on their way.
For it seems they sense the spirit guardians, so become wary,
for them, the blood scent still lingers, as if spilt just yesterday.

So life's players, like memories, with long decades fade away,
but forever the strangeness lingers, where misdeeds are done.
Alone, you may hear the wind, wailing the sounds of torment,
then feel the chilling presence, of the ghosts, of Elsmore Run.


[C]. Copyright: Bernard de Silva.

[therese]

ohhh good one bernie! is it unfortunately based on fact?

[Bernard de Silva]

G'day Tessa,
                  total fiction, but sadly, based on  undeniable fact...As to a specific incident it would be difficult to isolate and restrict the basis to one such conflict...researching history uncovers a progression of disputes and acts such as those described, right up to the 1930's.
                                                        Bernie.

[James]

The Ghosts of Elmore Run still tugs at the heart with the injustice of a great many such incidences in the past. Now men with wigs and pens have taken over from the horsemen. Good on ya Bernie James

[Bernard de Silva]

G'day James,
                  civilization, I'm afraid, is an extremely thin veneer from which the concealed animal so readily and too often emerges...such is the status quo...
                                                Catchya down the track Cobber...
                                                                                     Bernie.

[Andrew]

Great poem Bernie.....berloody beauty.

h

[Irene]

Bernie
Loved your poem!!
My first thought was "Is it a true story", but reading on, I see you have already answered that query for Therese.
As you say, sadly, a lot of similar type of incidents have happened throughout our history.

Well written.

Catchya
IRene