 |
| Ipswich floods 2011 |
We
are just a trifle soggy, somewhat battered, somewhat bent -
have
embraced the colour brown, now wonder where the water went.
There
are tears here by the thousands, but there’s steel beneath the pain
but
Australians are tough – we’ll rise again.
Our
homes were inundated by a dirty swelling tide
that
swept in raging currents, over rooftops far and wide,
sweeping
everything before it – the brown aftermath of rain
and
we pray that we don’t see its like again.
The
waters stole our children, took the women and the men.
Plucked
and cast aside like flotsam – some we’ll never find again.
Families
are sorely troubled; they have lost all that they owned
‘till
the brown waters retreated, and land spurned.
Now
the cleanup is beginning – and harsh reality sets in
as
the vision starts unfolding – devastation.
Things look grim,
then
the volunteers start coming armed with brooms, buckets and hoses
beating
mud into submission. Holy Moses.
The
piles of rubbish grow upon the footpaths of the towns.
Carpets,
curtains, ruined furniture – all stained in river brown.
Children’s
toys, and rugs and mattresses, the internal plaster walls -
and
not a single thing thrown out enthrals.
The
ringing of the steel is heard as shovels dig in deep
to
shift the silt the hoses can’t – stuff we don’t want to keep.
Instead
of Sunday lawnmowers, it’s gurneys now you hear
as
they force mud to retreat and hose it clear.
And it’s
just another Sunday – really just another day
except
the rivers now lie sullenly, and brownly wends their way
along
their chosen watercourse – returned now to their lair.
Oh
how we all wish that they had stayed there.
The
sky above is blue and clear, the day humid and hot.
The
ground below is silted brown, and mildews on the trot.
An
endless line of Utes, trailers and trucks just come and go
and
the cities hearts are pumping – though they’re slow.
Above
the sound of choppers as they do another sweep
at
low level on the river – another soul pulled from the deep
and
dirty turgid waters – she relinquishes her prize;
but
somewhere, someone’s last held hope just dies.
We
love a sunburnt country – this land of sweeping plains.
We
love her though she sends us fires, cyclones, flooding rains.
We
are grateful for the spirit and the fact that mates helps mate.
We will
rise again – rebuild in every State.
We’ve
seen such devastation as we’ve never seen before
from
the top end of Queensland down to Tassie’s emerald shore
The
West is fighting fires and the Eastern states fight flood
and
it seems as if the Mother’s after blood.
But
we’ll rise again – we have before – we’ll fight another day
we
are one but we are many, and we all have roles to play,
and
if we stand united – put our shoulder to the wheel
it
will turn again –get on an even keel.
We’re
Australians – we’ll bend but never kneel.
Maureen Clifford © 16/1/11
No comments:
Post a Comment