“The volcano and the platypus”

Upon the emerald fringe of distant vale,  
Where fern and wattle weave a scented trail,  
A mountain slumbers, head enwrapped in mist—  
Old Koorawong, the fire-veined volcanist.  

Below its shadow, by the river’s song,  
A curious creature waddles swift along:  
The platypus, with bill of ducky grace,  
Whiskers twitching, dreams upon her face.  

She dives through eddies spun from molten stone,  
Where lava’s teeth once gnawed, now overgrown  
With reeds and lilies, golden in the sun—  
Her every stroke a tale of peace hard-won.  

At dusk, the mountain rumbles in its sleep,  
A distant thunder in the silence deep.  
The platypus, beneath a crimson sky,  
Surfaces softly, lifting nose up high.  

Does she recall, in ancient, dreaming bones,  
The rivers new-born from volcanic moans?  
Does Koorawong recall a time before  
Soft fur and webbed delight along its shore?  

Together, ages fused in gentle dance—  
One forged in fire, one woven by chance—  
Both whispering, as twilight scents the air,  
The earth holds wonders everywhere.

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