Yackandandah, by John Sinclair McIntyre

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Yackandandah, village of destiny,
Township of dreams to an incoming soul,
Spacious and vital, by regional verity,
Vistas of mountains and bushland unfold.

Spawned by the fever of gold in the sixties,
Two centuries back when the nation was young,
An oasis in time with a labyrinth of history,
A jewel in the land with its worth yet unsung.

All through the years since the gold made it prosper,
A location oft sought for its space and its charms,
The views of the hills, and the creek’s subtle whisper,
So firmly were etched that no mortal could harm.

This was the view of most who have lived here,
Enchanted by all in the past they have known,
But demand for more dwellings on land yet uncleared
Fed the planner’s mad thirst for a thousand more homes.

With little concern for the views of the locals
So often expressed in surveys without end,
The building of houses is seen to be focal
By those with no will to adjust or amend.

The vision of life in this town’s shady valley,
The hope of residents present and gone,
Is denied to them all by developer’s sally
To cover the hills with harsh colourbond.

A developer’s dream, with its wide open spaces
Yet to be filled with allotments galore,
Where goes the Yack of the heavenly places
So common in dreams, in days now of yore.

A township of buildings and densely packed people,
Where once was a view of the hills and the sky,
Gone are the mountains and local church steeple
With these all replaced by new buildings on high.

This wasn’t the vision of past populations
And residents present who make this town work,
Its future is planned by outside congregations
With allegiance so far from this town that they hurt.

With steely resolve, we all step to the future
Through a jungle of houses with landscape torn down,
And the hope, sense and reason may finally suture
The wounds of bad planning we see in our town.