The Black Opal

(Dedicated to the late Percy Marks)

The Orchid Gem, a fairy crown;

Like bits of stars that tumbled down

In dusky settings blue or brown

Long ages yore.

The virtues of all gems we know,

Whate’er their lustre, hue or glow,

Australia’s own black opals show,

And something more.

The morning’s blush; the golden ray

The clouds on fire at close of day;

The purpled hills where wild flowers play

The nature bore.

The rose confessing to the dew;

The fickle ocean’s changing hue;

The Southern Cross in midnight blue;

And these and more.

The palette where Jehova laid

His every colour his every shade,

To paint the universe he made

Both sea and shore.

A shattered rainbow in a shell

Its glories hidden where it fell;

The gem without a parallel-

All this and more.

Mother of fire that never burns;

Whichever way the jewel turns

Some new aurora one discerns

Unseen before.

When mother earth laid bare her breast

To show what jewels she possessed,

Black opal far outshone the rest

And something more.

A cupid’s heart on fire ‘twould seem;

Or speckled trout in mountain stream;

The love glow in a maiden’s dream

When hearts adore;

As sunbeams through rose windows fall

In haloes on cathedral wall-

God’s benediction on us all-

One blessing more.

Spirit of night, the soul of day;

Just how it glows no one can say,

Save that it be some heavenly ray

Sent on before

Whose jewelled splendour typifies

The glory of the world that lies

Beyond the Gates of Paradise

Forever more.

By

Fred Emerson Brooks

Opals

Morning and evening,

Midday and night,

Mingling their shades

In varying light.

A palette set out

For painting a scene,

A wizard no doubt,

Mixed that wonderful green.

Does the rainbow begin

In the earth where they lie?

Does the dawn meet the sunset,

Combining their dye?

Some are like moonlight,

Spangled with stars,

A white cloister gate

With gleaming gold bars!

A carnival night,

Streamers and flowers,

Balloons gay and bright,

Confetti in showers!

Flames in mosaic,

Sparkling and gay,

Then prim and possaic

With a pallor of grey.

Like a cherry light

A journey’s end,

A fireside bright

And the smile of a friend.

By Margaret McEwin