Grey, grumbling carts go down the hidden valley,
Lop-sided 'neath their loads of piled-up boughs.
Along the slope the sheep, slow-moving, rally
From hollows where the winds of autumn drowse.
And down the road thick-barred with inky shadow,
Trail home the quiet cows.
Tall fences lean above the straw and rubble,
Dim farmhouse-roofs float airily in dream.
Beyond the blunted spears of shining stubble
The ploughman walks behind his straining team.
Against the grass, against the purple furrows,
The blades like silver gleam.
Blue smoke hangs where the sunlight dapples,
Old orchards grey with gaunt and leafless trees.
The piercing scent of green, late-garnered apples
Comes waveringly with every earthy breeze
There is no sound in all the hidden valley,
But the loud hum of bees.
But the loud hum of bees uprising, falling
In places filled with secret yellow comb,
And clear and wild the song of magpies calling
From windy gums that toss a blossomed foam.
Here in the hidden valley peace has fashioned
Its own abiding home!
First published in The Australasian, 25 July 1936
