Talbingo Mountain, steep, so steep
that sand is spread upon its road
to stop the cars from slipping.
Across the gorge, green shadowed in
late afternoon, the granite outcrops soar
and candlebark and stringybark lean thinly
keeping balance in the ancient shallow soils.
They say the man who blazed the track
came down it with a wagon.
He tied cut sleepers to its back,
logs like landlocked anchors,
while his wife jog jolted at his side,
their baby in a basket, trusting that
the horses wouldn’t bolt or slide.
Fear quickens in my stomach
when I take to the mountain road
winding up Yarrangobilly
where we used to go
tobogganing as children.
Did the pioneers feel it
slopping at their insides
like loose water in a quart pot
or was their life hard enough
without the luxury of fear?
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