Primary Or Secondary Poem by Colleen Wright

Primary or Secondary.

This wonderful 'sunburnt' land of milk and honey,
so rich, beautiful, so plentiful – it's just not funny.
I gaze into the early morning streaming sunlight
and see such God given wonders, of pure delight.

The winding rivers run, the glistening as waters sparkle,
as the feeding feathered birds wing and make their call.
Kangaroos, possums, lizards, koalas, unique animals move
to make the sound of Australia, a sound of magic, to soothe.

How I love the beauty of the everlasting daisy and the waratah,
the banksias, the bottle-brushes, the native flora, without mar.
Wet-the-beds in Spring pop up like the mushrooms in March,
golden wattle bubbles and bursts as the weeping willows arch.

Many crops heave and sag when the scorching summers burn,
seeds begin to spring forth as the busy harvesters reap and turn.
Farmer's faces are wrinkled and weary at the end of the day
as harvest time is to work, eat, and late at night - 'hit the hay'.

'Gruner's cows and many more breeds are rounded
by the diarymen and his best friend's bark sounded.
To the sheds and milking machines, the usual things,
mop buckets, slop buckets, as the cow 'Milko' sings.

Silver, lead, zinc, copper, gold, minerals in the raw,
diamonds, saphires, opals, emeralds, pearls in awe.
Tall timbers reaching for our temperamental skies
dense foliage, ravenous rain forests behold my eyes.

Rusty red roads roll into the depths of the dusty desert's
dry dirt which holds the secrets of the sun and it's hurts.
I stand in amazement, I stand in absolute shock,
as I become aware of a vision that is 'The Rock'.

From the long winding road to the narrowing high track
were many a climbing man is found with his back pack,
to a place where everything is pure, still and blue-white,
to a place where everything is ever so serene and quiet.

Men, women, boys and girls, with or without handicap,
ooze with enthusiasm, eagerness, and plenty of sap.
Sporting fields are full and used aplenty,
of area - there is rarely an arena empty.

Yet my good countryman and woman, why are we hungry?
Why haven't all fellow men money, clothing, food or laundry?
Could it be that the union computer is on strike,
or would it be that we have lost spirit and sight?


Could we have become spoiled, lazy and complacent?
Should we sit back and say 'Bloody hell, that we ain't'!
Should we just get up and have a real good go, Mate?

Colleen Wright. T.G. © 19.08.2006