In dreams I see the creeks run swiftly, full of precious rain -
the dry land fills it's belly, until the sun appears again.
Constant battles always fought but never , truly, won
amid the dust out in the paddocks of the Western cattle run.
Oh for three good years of plenty on this stark and arid land -
grass would grow and water flow and stock would fatten out of hand.
The bankers all would tip their hats again, to Graziers on the street,
instead of turning noses up, as if they’d cow dung on their feet.
But I’ll not whinge and whimper at our bloody awful lot
for there’s plenty, far worse off than us, yet never lose the plot.
I’ve seen little kids on city streets who’s faces never smile,
I wouldn’t swap my life for theirs…not by a country mile.
There’s women on dark corners who sell themselves for cash -
a thing I couldn’t come at, not for all the city's flash and dash.
I’d rather have my drought hit farm and all the heartbreak there
than give away my freedom – it’d be more than I could bear.
Vickie Bowman (c) 2004
Posted by Midus at July 14, 2004 12:46 PM