What are the colours of Australia? Are they simply green and gold
Or the grey that haunts a city in a winter wet and cold?
Where the drizzle drowns the bitumen, it’s blackness oozing pain
Before swirling down a gutter to find the sea again.
A sea that harbours anger in a pounding mid-year storm
And yet a sea that offers comfort when the weather’s clear and warm,
Where the whitecaps crown an ocean that is every shade of blue,
Crashing to a golden shore, that’s Australia through and through.
See the bright zinc noses glisten beneath hair as black as coal
Or the light blond locks of lifeguards on a Bondi Beach patrol.
But has Australia more to offer than merely surf and sand?
Well the answer to the question lies within the Rainbow Land.
For if you venture far away from the beach and city streets
You might see the golden splendour of a ripened field of wheat.
Or a fresh-ploughed North West paddock on an apparent endless plain
Where the dark brown earth turns darker when it’s drenched by soothing rain
That sings songs upon a tin roof where, underneath, a homestead wife
Is laughing with her children as they drink the smell of life
And this brings a pearly smile to a sunburned farmer’s face
And he gives thanks to the heavens for another act of grace.
Or wander to a valley where the magic fruit of vines
Is caressed by master makers ’til it fills a glass with wine.
A rich burgundy or chardonnay, each a colour in itself,
All destined for the darkness of a dusty cellar shelf.
Keep on heading westward across this wide brown land
And you’ll marvel at The Simpson and its shifting desert sands.
Sun-bleached gold and yellow as they struggle to escape
To an horizon, which by heat-waves has been twisted out of shape.
Then push on to The Centre to see what it holds for you
And you’ll stare in sheer amazement at the sight of Uluru.
The red-hot Rock at midday is a scene you won’t forget
And you’ll watch its colour change as the sun begins to set.
Those harsh and vivid visions which by day were burning bright
Take on softer, pastel hues as they usher in the night.
For Nature is an artist and her canvas is the earth
And each day is a masterpiece transcending mortal worth.
In her rich Australian gallery her paintings have no peer,
From a jet-black moonless night to running water, crystal-clear,
From a snow-capped Kosciuszko to a forest charred by flame
Every worldly colour lies within Australia’s aqua frame.
Murray Hartin
Rain From Nowhere
Murray Hartin
February 21, 2007
His cattle didn’t get a bid, they were fairly bloody poor,
What was he going to do? He couldn’t feed them anymore,
The dams were all but dry, hay was thirteen bucks a bale,
Last month’s talk of rain was just a fairytale,
His credit had run out, no chance to pay what’s owed,
Bad thoughts ran through his head as he drove down Gully Road.
“Geez, great grandad bought the place back in 1898,
“Now I’m such a useless bastard, I’ll have to shut the gate.
“Can’t support my wife and kids, not like dad and those before,
“Crikey, Grandma kept it going while Pop fought in the war.”
With depression now his master, he abandoned what was right,
There’s no place in life for failures, he’d end it all tonight.
There were still some things to do, he’d have to shoot the cattle first,
Of all the jobs he’d ever done, that would be the worst.
He’d have a shower, watch the news, then they’d all sit down for tea
Read his kids a bedtime story, watch some more TV,
Kiss his wife goodnight, say he was off to shoot some roos
Then in a paddock far away he’d blow away the blues.
But he drove in the gate and stopped – as he always had
To check the roadside mailbox – and found a letter from his Dad.
Now his dad was not a writer, Mum did all the cards and mail
But he knew the writing from the notebooks that he’d kept from cattle sales,
He sensed the nature of its contents, felt moisture in his eyes,
Just the fact his dad had written was enough to make him cry.
“Son, I know it’s bloody tough, it’s a cruel and twisted game,
“This life upon the land when you’re screaming out for rain,
“There’s no candle in the darkness, not a single speck of light
“But don’t let the demon get you, you have to do what’s right,
“I don’t know what’s in your head but push the bad thoughts well away
“See, you’ll always have your family at the back end of the day
“You have to talk to someone, and yes I know I rarely did
“But you have to think about Fiona and think about the kids.
“I’m worried about you son, you haven’t rung for quite a while,
“I know the road you’re on ‘cause I’ve walked every bloody mile.
“The date? December 7 back in 1983,
“Behind the shed I had the shotgun rested in the brigalow tree.
“See, I’d borrowed way too much to buy the Johnson place
“Then it didn’t rain for years and we got bombed by interest rates,
“The bank was at the door, I didn’t think I had a choice,
“I began to squeeze the trigger – that’s when I heard your voice.
“You said ‘Where are you Daddy? It’s time to play our game’
“’ I’ve got Squatter all set up, we might get General Rain.’
“It really was that close, you’re the one that stopped me son,
“And you’re the one that taught me there’s no answer in a gun.
“Just remember people love you, good friends won’t let you down.
“Look, you might have to swallow pride and take that job in town,
“Just ’til things come good, son, you’ve always got a choice
“And when you get this letter ring me, ’cause I’d love to hear your voice.”
Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in gear,
Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,
Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away
Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.
Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held high,
He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.
He called his wife and children, who’d lived through all his pain,
Hugs said more than words – he’d come back to them again,
They talked of silver linings, how good times always follow bad,
Then he walked towards the phone, picked it up and rang his Dad.
And while the kids set up the Squatter, he hugged his wife again,
Then they heard the roll of thunder and they smelt the smell of rain.
Murray Martin
“I WROTE Rain From Nowhere on the morning of February 21, 2007.
