The Hills of Bangalow: By Michael Douglas – Winner of the open writing section.

Gentle as the call of the morning mist and rain,

Soft and green the fields, and the valley and the plains;

The birds give their gentle song of quietude,

And I am lost in a distant solitude;

My heart now deepened, the hues of the morning glow,

For I am of the hills, the hills of Bangalow.

The grass illuminates with viridescent green,

Trees of fig and wattle, and cedar to the scene;

Wompoo and wren, at home in this special place,

And lowing cattle graze with a gentle grace;

Harmonious as I dream, ‘neath the branches low,

For I am of the hills, the hills of Bangalow.

My home, my home awaits with its warm desire,

The children at the hearth gaze into the fire;

Where verse is shared, and songs of the soul are sung,

Eliot and Yeats, so too the lines of Donne;

Our words, they are alive, our prayers, they are aglow

For I am of the hills, the hills of Bangalow.

Invoke all this beauty, this holy accolade,

For there I lose my soul amid valley and glade;

And I cry into the fields with the morning sun,

For my heart is blessed with wonder unbegun;

My dreams are dancing with joy, my tears how they flow,

For I am of the hills, the hills of Bangalow.