The Lucky Country
The mists of morning settle low
Upon Mt Gambier’s Great Blue Lake.
Testing the limits of the naked eye,
It encompasses everything in its wake.
There’s not a breath of wind across the plains,
As the trees refuse to sway.
The desert chill that marked the night
Will soon give way to the heat of the day.
Turning far away to the east,
A world apart from the Outback’s roast,
The first few rays of glorious sunlight
Teeter brightly across the coast.
Flocks of magpies and kookaburras
Sound out the old stockmen’s alarm.
On horseback the workers trot off
To toil upon their farms.
Hunting their prey down in the Bight,
Where the water stretches great miles,
Riding the sea are the tuna boats
Bringing home dinner with their various styles.
It’s eight in the morning in Sydney
And the traffic has reached its peak.
Juggling papers and coffee and briefcases too,
A steady wage awaits by the end of the week.
Though they’d all rather be in paradise:
Strolling the beaches of the Gold and Sunny shores,
Where children bathe in crystal swells
Untouched by plague or imminent wars.
Far to the south and it’s time for the game
Which divides this tiny Vic town.
Two thousand crammed into the country ground
To support their boys: the gold and brown.
Worlds away from Euroa it’s beer o’clock
Amongst Darwin’s sweltering heat.
Where men raise a toast to this lucky land,
For living Down Under was hard to beat!
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Jack Growden (C) 2010
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