Weeping shadows edge dying creeks

Beyond, a battered, splintered fence

With no defence from Passing time

As termites chew their wasting way.

Gnawing dust trails, chomping lean rails

Where once hung feet, long bullock whips

Dry drover’s quips of good times gone

Without a melancholy song.

To croon the cows in calming tones

Green grass soon turned to steak Diane,

Or into sweet four quarter chops

Once common food now for the toffs

Cows really are grass on four feet,

Soft, Woolly warmth grass with long sleeves.

Yes, Everything is made of grass

Except those crazy dreams which passed

Through mindless cavities in heads

Cranial holes of fear and dread

Trapped in the lies of yesterday

Good times are really here to stay

The pollies lied in every speech

Denying all reality

While Drought afflicted farmers cry

Careless crows drift aimlessly by,

Looking for a tasty feed and

Poets paint portals of words

To fast escape the swarming herds

Stampeding down an endless curve

Stock market nerds from fifty floors

Crash like the markets to the pall

Whilst dreamers doze on aimlessly

Drovers’ watch the pastures flee

The grass they care for dying fast

Bone bare paddocks now gasp their last

Pastures covered with dried white bones

Those Farmers’ hopes forever gone

Whilst Woolworths, Coles can rip them off

Prices they’re paid are not enough

Corporate greed, shareholder’s smiles

Far more important than the trials

Of farmers, stockmen, drovers too

Solomon said ‘nothing is new’

The seasons come and seasons go

Hope waits on a better ‘morrow

Soft willows bend before a breeze

Reaching to touch the mud beneath

In search of moisture lurking there

Square city folk will never care

Until the food is out of reach

They’ll kill each other on the streets

For morsels, scraps, while banker’s feast

The future is already here.

 

 

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