ON THE LAND

They fence the water from the world
And hang the fox skin on the barb.
And where the brown snake lies uncurled,
The hoof trodden meadow dries so hard
That grass is pressed back through its roots.
The surface cracks; the moisture gone;
Where soft footed natives seek the shoots,
But die of hunger every one.
Salt fields form to worsen drought
And when sweet nature's rains don't come
The station owners curse and shout...
Never admitting what they have done.
And from a distance those who grieve
Watch the whinging farmers leave

©Copyright August 9, 2005 by Colin F. Jones


Page Updated: Tuesday March 6, 2012
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