Saturday, December 1, 2007


I'm tired to death of the city streets,
The walls and their height and grime;
The pattering beat of the hustling feet
Seem running a race with time.

I'm sick of the jostle of bustling crowds,
The wooden set London stare,
The frozen face in the public place
Where the crowds swarm everywhere.

I'm Southern born, and a touch of sun
Has kindled a fierce desire
For a real sun-bake where the beaches take
From sunshine a Southern fire.

I'm wearied to death of the roaring wheels,
Of the traffic a-hustling by;
I long for the plains where distance wanes
To a blend of the earth and sky.

For a breath of the wattle aflame in fire,
for the blue of a sun-bathed sky,
For the carolling sweet when magpies greet
The dawn when the night-stars die.

I' lonely at heart in the worlds great hub,
There's an ache in my heart-strings sore
for the glimpse of a face that my thoughts will
That will come to my side no more

For the khaki form of a soldier lad
At rest on the Anzac slopes,
Sad honour keeps where his body sleeps,
The wreck of a mothers hopes.

I'm lonely and lonelier still for the sweet,
Brief touch of soft finger-tips,
For homelier ways and the Southerners phrase
From Australian sun-kissed lips.

I'm tired of the hum of the city street,
Of the walls, the fog, and the grime;
The pattering beat of the hustling feet
seem running a race with time.

No comments: