As the snow falls on the Brindabella Ranges Watch it sparkle as it catches all the early morning light Like a string of diamonds up above the tree tops On your Brindabella morning, lord, it makes a wondrous sight
But it’s not a northern billabong at sundown Where the brumbies make their way across anthill plains And you can’t look down and see a thousand buffalo Wading across the black soil after monsoon rains
And the campfires of the Brinkin tribe don’t glimmer here at night To let the traveller know he’s not alone Though your Brindabella morning shines like crystal in the light It’s not my time, it’s not my place, it’s not home
See the black swans nesting far out on your big lake See the water as it’s rippled by a tiny breath of breeze And a sudden flash of colour in the gum break As your parrots flit like jewels ’neath your soaring mountain trees
But its not a million magpie geese a-rising Blotting out the sun as they suddenly take wing From some pool beside the Alligator River That’s dry until the first rains fall in spring
And I miss those fish crocs barking around sundown When the air gets thick and those fruit bats start to roam You might find your piece of heaven on this Brindabella day But it’s not my time, it’s not my place, it’s not home
Mike Hayes' reflections on leaving the Top End to live in Canberra post-Cyclone Tracy. Mike worked in Darwin for the ABC and he was the first journalist to report on the cyclone.