Sweeping north all time expands,
The slow miles stretch behind:
The sculpting sun creates, with hands
Of heat and baking wind,
A landscape where now, all things simmer;
People, birds and beasts, all shimmer
In a light that saps the mind
Blanching all their precious lands.
Towns are drowsy, one's asleep -
The pub is open wide
And cool, the amber hours creep,
A rising drunken tide:
It drowns the problems, cures all sorrows,
Kills todays, postpones tomorrows;
One old Kelpie stands inside
And someone's always there to weep.
Days are longer, evening's drawn
Down on the slothful plain.
The cattle, grazing there since dawn,
Lift heads to sniff at rain
Across the ranges, quickly sweeping,
Into gullies it comes seeping,
Filling tanks to ease the pain ...
Some dusty farmers smile and yawn.
At last the hot, unflinching sun
Has disappeared, taken the drought
For now. Some yarns are being spun
And some cold beer is brought
To table at a grateful station
Where, to break the dry duration,
They 'thank Christ!', then drink a draught
And watch the creeks begin to run.
by Phil Brown
... and more Poetry ...
Copyright © Phil Brown