Grey Dawn, Bulba
Grey bleak dawn. Not a roseate tint to cheer the gloom. Sullen clouds with moisture laden, seeking to flood the earth with tears. A mournful wind sousing through the dripping trees, like the sighing of the departed.
The dim old swamp gradually filling with the overflow from the gullies in the bush, again to overflow to swell the waters of the Lake. Silent birds that flit like passing ghosts through the mirk and gloom. Drip, drip, moisture everywhere.
Bess and Judy the old pet wallabies sit like stoics. No complaints. Just a grim determination to see it through.
Greatly daring I thrust the blankets (beaded with moisture) aside, and peep into the mirk and gloom.
Wangi peninsular is just visible across the lake, whose wavelets are piling up the gravel on the Island beach. Except for the motion of the water, silence reigns supreme.
A glance towards the bluff and at a place where the surplus water from the hillside is reaching its level in the lake there is life abounding. Leaping in silvery cascades are shoals of white-bait running before a shoal of mullet. They are hard pressed. Silver bodies wriggle out a short existence on the sandy beach.
And thus we have the silver lining to the storm, that will glitter anew when the glorious sun returns again in majesty to beam upon us.
Thompson Noble. 24.9.1932.
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