Three Ages of Cymbidium Suave

Three Ages of Cymbidium Suave

A Beautiful Australian Native Orchid

For as long as I know, I have chosen to grow

In the realm of currawong and crow.

At home in the trees living life as I please

As I toss with the moss in the breeze.


At peace here so long, where the Lyrebird’s song

And the chant of the dark men belong.

My peace was to end and the gloom did descend

With the raids by the first white men.




The forest they slew as the long flitches flew,

From the logs in the saw mills that grew.

The tannin that seeped from the sawdust heaped

Stained the waters that crept to the creek.


The ancient bush rang as the axes all swang

Til the giants all fell with a BANG.

Cymbidiums died and my species has cried

When loggers loot all in their stride.




A hundred years passed and the slaughter so vast

Was stalled as the saw mills shut fast.

The junk from their quest in the forests bereft

Of a soul in the mess that was left.


But lo and behold . . . who could have fortold?

The gain from the pain was like Gold!

The rotting log dumps in the bush sprouted clumps

Of Suaves reclaiming the stumps.


Cymbidiums now grace the tarted up face

Of the bush once raped now embraced.

So soft and so green and so regal a scene:

Now Heralds the conquering Queen.

 Gerry Walsh, 2015