Lemon Hill Farm
©2005 Andrew Hull

The tall bridge arcs an entrance as the road winds up the hill,
Where Kookaburra cackles and bell-birds echo still
Where the windy gravel drive has the power to disarm
You’re about to be admitted to the Lemon Hill Farm

There are stands of Gum and Banksia that act as a retreat
Where the mistletoe and mountain ash with native birds compete
And they shield the little nursery below the gentle hill
I can smell the native apple and the Lemon Myrtle still

You can follow the swamp wallabies that hug the watercourse
Or trace in infant river up the valley to its source
You can wander through the bushland that speaks Gippsland charm
On November afternoons, all across Lemon Hill Farm

And Elizabeth is cooking, locals love it when she cooks
While Brian’s pride is carried in his language and his looks
For they share a special vision for their own rural abode
And they’ve built it for themselves up on Lemon Hill Road

I am leaving in the morning when the sun is on the ridge,
I will drive out through the valley, underneath the trestle bridge
And I may never return here, though I hope someday I will
For I never will forget that special home on Lemon Hill.