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Acrylic on canvas

Inspired by the poem: Clancy’s reply allegedly written by “Clancy” (Thomas Gerald Clancy), composed as a reply to Banjo Paterson’s poem, “Clancy of the Overflow” It is believed to have been written in 1897.

here is a snippet:

’Neath the star-spangled dome
Of my Austral home,
When watching by the camp fire’s ruddy glow,
Oft in the flickering blaze
Is presented to my gaze
The sun-drenched kindly faces
Of the men of Overflow.

Now, though years have passed forever
Since I used, with best endeavour
Clip the fleeces of the jumbucks
Down the Lachlan years ago,
Still in memory linger traces
Of many cheerful faces,
And the well-remembered visage
Of the Bulletin’s “Banjo”.

Tired of life upon the stations,
With their wretched, scanty rations,
I took a sudden notion
That a droving I would go;
Then a roving fancy took me,
Which has never since forsook me,
And decided me to travel,
And leave the Overflow.

….

Over arid plains extended
My route has often tended,
Droving cattle to the Darling,
Or along the Warrego;
Oft with nightly rest impeded,
When the cattle had stampeded,
Save I sworn that droving pleasures
For the future I’d forego.

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Acrylic on canvas

Poem by Rachael Middlebrook

Out in the bush, where the gum trees sing,
Lives a barefoot boy who loves the spring.
The creeks and rivers are his playground wide,
Where the land drinks deep and life abides.

By the banks, he watches the waters flow,
A silent dance where the wild things go.
The swamp wallaby bounds through the ferny shade,
A quiet shadow in the green arcade

Above, the black cockatoos cry and soar,
Echoes of freedom in the bushland’s lore.
The galahs wheel bright in the golden light,
A flash of pink in the endless flight.

With a stick in hand and mud on his knees,
He follows the whispers of the creek-side breeze.
Every pool holds secrets, every bend a tale,
Of tadpoles darting and dragonflies’ pale.

He knows each bend, each ripple's grin,
The land’s lifeblood runs deep within.
The river’s song is his guiding tune,
From morning sun to the rise of the moon.

For the boy from the bush, the wild is home,
The creeks and rivers are where he’ll roam.
A child of water, earth, and sky,
Living with nature, as days drift by.

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Acrylic on canvas

Inspired by “The Ballad of the Drover” by Henry Lawson.

Here’s a snippet:

An hour has filled the heavens
With storm-clouds inky black;
At times the lightning trickles
Around the drover's track;

But Harry pushes onward,
His horses' strength he tries,
In hope to reach the river
Before the flood shall rise.

The thunder pealing o'er him
Goes rumbling down the plain;
And sweet on thirsty pastures
Beats fast the rushing rain.

Then every creek and gully
Sends forth its tribute flood—
The river runs a banker,
All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover,
The best dog on the plains,
And to his hardy horses,
And strokes their shaggy manes.

“We’ve breasted bigger rivers
When floods were at their height
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home tonight!”

Oil on canvas

Poem by Rachael Middlebrook

A sky stretched wide with breathless grace,
The land a flame of time and space.
Red earth and gold in quiet flame,
Each ridge and root without a name. 

A rider pauses near the claypan’s gleam,
Where blue reflects a distant dream.
His horse stands still—both know the way,
Their silence speaks what words won’t say.

 The wind moves low through spinifex,
Old ghost gums frame the outback’s text.
A shed sits weathered, far and small—
A landmark worn, yet standing tall.

 This is no rush, no grand parade,
Just man and land in light and shade.
A moment held beneath the sun,
The day not done, the journey one.

Acrylic on canvas

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A soft scene from Laceys Creek in the Dayboro area showing a well-worn saddle resting in the shade. Nearby, an Australian Kelpie, loyal and alert even at rest, takes a well-deserved break from moving cattle. Off scene, the stockman cools their horse in the creek.

Acrylic on canvas

Poem by Rachael Middlebrook

Weathered bones of tin and beam,
It leans into the western dream,
Where paddocks stretch like ocean's swell,
And morning mist begins to dwell.

Locals pass with nods and grace—
A quiet shrine in time and place,
Its rust a map of seasons worn,
A relic steadfast, bent, yet born.

To me, it means I’m almost there—
The hills familiar, softened air.
The dog might stir upon the tray,
The cattle glance, then look away.

For years I’ve longed to paint it true,
In ochres, creams, and muted blue,
But never felt the moment right—
Until one winter’s tender light.

The dawn broke soft on frost-kissed grass,
And hues of rose and gold did pass
Across the roof, the timber's line—
A humble shed turned near-divine.

So brush in hand, I stood alone,
To honour it in shape and tone.
Not grand, not proud—but deeply known:
The Mount Brisbane Shed. Almost home.

Oil on canvas

This piece carries a sense of immense power and raw energy. Even today, there are remote places in Australia where European/‘gubba’ footprints are rare, and the connection to Country remains deeply rooted and unbroken. Through this painting of a young First Nations Girl galloping in the pindan dirt ahead of the storm, I want to honour the First Nations peoples and their enduring bond with the land, a connection that inspires me continuously and one which in many respects, we have lost.

Oil on canvas

Poem by Rachael Middlebrook

Stillness lingers on the lake,
Overhead, the tempests wake.
Lone trees bow as wild winds call,
In their flight, they heed it all.
Thunder rolls but leaves me whole,
Underneath, a quiet soul.
Drifting where the air doth dance,
Endless as the tide—left to chance.