A poem by Marco Gliori
Carved in granite, tales are told
Ancestral Dreaming, wise and old,
a culture stirred, a treasured land
soon came the pioneering band.
A vow, a chance, a swag of tin,
the wagon wheels came rolling in,
the grunt, the sweat, a winning streak,
the settlement on Quart Pot Creek.
The shunt of rail, a blast of steam,
the future’s hope an endless stream,
brave migrants on their global trek
answered our prayers, all hands on deck.
With pastures green and livestock fat,
new blood now graced the welcome mat,
brave Soldier Settlers, passing through,
so many stayed, and worthy too.
Australia’s growing pains were felt,
while here upon The Granite Belt,
as Stanthorpe thrived and small towns burst,
folks proudly put their Nation first.
United in deep gratitude,
they sowed the seeds of plentitude,
with staunch resolve, they forged a place
where tourists found a warm embrace.
Now orchards and the vineyards boast
a reputation, coast to coast,
their worker’s camps still spark a song
for those who join the healthy throng.
Where local folklore comes to spawn
sweet memories, and love, reborn
as old halls bounce alive with dance
and fertile moments stir romance.
The seasons of so many years,
rich heritage – respected peers,
each generation’s sporting greats,
long silent friends, those boisterous mates.
Now bridges span the course of time,
as ancient church bells ring a chime,
the rusty packing shed now groans
as do the storyteller’s bones.
But frost can do that to a soul,
when icy winters take their toll,
on those who climb Mt Marlay’s top
to view the harvest of the crop.
Beneath the southern stars that glow
their vision sweeps the scene below,
where Spirits waltz, and fresh hearts melt,
for Stanthorpe and the Granite Belt.
