"The pretty valley through which Prossers River flows is very characteristic of Tasmania's scenery: well-watered, fertile and somewhat park-like in aspect,
wherever severe utilitarian 'improvement' has not destroyed the native trees, which have been gradually and steadily disappearing since my sketch was
made; and I fear much that, were I to climb 'Boomer-back' again to correct present inaccuracies, the new drawing would probably make a worse
picture than the old one."
Louisa Meredith, My Island Home 1870s
Across the Prosser Plains she gazed
from Boomer's lofty height
sat and thought, and all amazed
she sketched the morning light.
And for awhile she may have lazed
to dwell upon the sight:
the wooded hills and vales,
our Buckland church and inn
fields of wheat and kales,
the road with little din
a waggon load of bales,
the wool a-going in
Were there willows growing then
at the river's verge?
Planted there by fisher-men
beside the native spurge?
Did Louisa, knowing, ken
our present willow scourge?
She heard the birds, their distant trill,
the children at their play
she took the time to sketch at will
a scene we'd think so fey –
no speeding trucks, no screeching mill –
............her Buckland was so still
When Louisa clambered down,
in dainty shoes and flowing gown,
I fancy then she scoffed a gin,
(her horse being readied at the Inn)
And striking Twamley whence she came,
basked in history's fleeting frame