Mallee Rain

A twisting whirly musters hard baked leaves and bark. There’s another red sunset, just before it’s dark. The wilting wattles weep, and plea ‘I can’t live on!’ The strong keep fighting drought. The weak, soon dead and gone. Wheat fields and their bounty, wither in the sun to die. Red dust leaves forever, adding color to the sky. A man who’s living heartache, is this economic pain. Prays to the Lord and waits… Then he can smell the rain. An inch falls in the Mallee; the Mallee don’t need much to fill the pans and lowlands, that yearn to feel the touch. In the days that follow, changing is the scene. An inch here in the Mallee, and red soil turns to green. Lightning dances in the sky to the beat of thunders drum, heartbreak storm passes on, the follow up don’t come. But drifting from the west, clouds hide the sun away, land is cast in shadow… the sky turns steely gray. And rain falls in the Mallee; the Mallee don’t need much to fill the pans and lowlands, that yearn to feel its touch. In the days that follow, changing is the scene. Rain here in the Mallee, and red soil turns to green.