I walk a well worn track
From the far lands to the sea
Each step, a foot in history
The path of Bungaree.

The cry of cockatoos
Guides my presence to the past
As I gaze down on the big blue
Of history outcast.

The soft squelch underfoot
Earthen mossy mystery
Millenia of memories
I question history.

A solitary bird
Calls a lonely distant plea
A message to the future
Save the land of Bungaree.

I walk a well worn path
With a newfound empathy
The bushland gently guiding me
To the path of Bungaree.