The
following poem was penned by the late, great Roy Glanville (BEM).
A kind and honest man who had a habit of making others lives just
that much better. I recall Roy telling tales of some of the fish
caught in the Moonie River and the deep respect he had for the
people and the land around Flinton township. I hope I remembered
this properly Uncle Roy....
The
Moonie
I'm
in a city office but my thoughts are far away
In a little place called Flinton, out Moonie River way.
Not every bodies cup of tea, a church a house a hall
And an old and battered school house, that's just about to fall.
As Kids we used to ride there, to learn the golden rules
Glanvilles, Quinns and Hughes', Fitzgeralds and O'Tooles.
Those early days of learning were gay and full of fun
And teacher Archie Mitchell he really had to run.
The Moonie was a river then not a shallow muddy creek
Full of Yellowbelly, Jew and Cod so fat and sleek.
With wild duck there were plenty, woodies, black and teal
It didn't take much effort to grab yourself a meal.
The annual Fliton races and the local batchaelors ball,
with the pub from Nindi Gully bringing joy to one and all
The annual cricket matches ant-bed pitch and kappax matting,
The demon bowler from Glenmorgan and Randall Thompson's batting.
The pictures pass before my eyes as I tread down memories track,
But I've drunk the Moonie water, so I'll be going back.
