The Plains – Banjo Paterson

A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow 

Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go 

Like shifting symbols of hope deferred – land where you never know. 
Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance, 

Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance, 

Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance. 
And we catch a sound of a fairy’s song, as the wind goes whipping by, 

Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry 

  • Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.