Did you ever see them from there on the old Bundy Hill, did you see them bright and know again that thrill? Did you watch them gentle fall atop your car; did you ever see them  carpet the tar?

And did you ever see the way they columned old Carrington Street, the way they were easy in the soft spring heat? Did you ever see them shade the barefoot kids and make a  house or a swaying ship, for muddy little Maitland feet?

And I remember them down there in that lovely sleepy Maitland port; I can see them blazing purple and warm, can smell them sweet in the early dawn. 

And I can see them now, a gnarled tough bough, and in them are carved all them old Maitland faces; all of them kids, and our soft grassy places.

And the way dear friends the Jacarandas send me back, and the way I go now, down that worn childhood track.

And the way they come again, like the Cup, each year, the way they come like the tide and sky clear.

And the way they can make this town feel the same, the way they make me remember a name: and there’s little Billy Foran now and his bike, and he’s towing a mower and wearing his hat. 

And trust me friends, they don’t make them any more like that. 

And they’re all coming to me now dear reader, coming out of the lovely Jacaranda mist – and here they are for you, in a melancholy and sweet list:

And Ikey Waite and Freda Bush, and they’re coming now with an ethereal whoosh – and Girly Murphy and the Hogans and their trucks, and SP bookies and hard won bucks. 

And Mrs Melva Loan and her garden and her flowers, and Boxer and Gerty and Mr Wally Bogan – and Ronny and Dorothy and Leo O’Brien, and down the road just there stands  gentle Jimmy Ryan; and Jennings and Sprogis, and Teddy and Jean, and the way from back then, they come like a dream. 

And there’s Police Boys friends, gone Ray Kmetyk; and how he was one of the best I ever done seen, and young Terry Chipper, and he’s still there with his team.

And friends, it’s the trees and the season, they make them come back – the Upton’s and Fellowes, Lethbridge, Kelly, Swinger and Wells, and they’re coming back to me now on the sound of Post Office bells. 

And there in the trees it’s Darky Dare and Tommy Webb, or Eddie Wickham and Quinny and all those times they had; and maybe, just maybe, in the hazy lilac mist, there might be  your mum or your dad or the gone girl you kissed.

And the way the Jacarandas soften our loss, and those names and those faces and here comes the Ranch-Boss. 

And his name’s Tony Rampling and his smiling and strong, and he’s one of us still and to him the street does belong, and he’s back in the burnt Volly and he’ll sing all night long. 

And I’m sure they’d be happy with that end of our street, I’m sure they’d be pleased but confused with the young one’s they’d meet. 

And they’d ask after each other and they’d tremble and sigh; while they told us some tales  of those lives without end; of that beautiful place called Horseshoe Bend.

 Goodnight.