Country

Follow the creek to the stony, blue pool

Feel the water, hear its murmuring call.

Cool, clear water caressing your feet.

This is country, this is home.

Follow the creek to the moist, dense scrub 

Hold the leaves, know their whispering stories.

Twisting, twirling branches touching your arms.

This is country, this is real. Go farther.

Country knows drought and parched, cracked land,

The small empty breeze on a dry hot day

That suddenly roars within raging fire

To blacken and take.

Country knows death and deep, dark sorrow,

The rich busy land that can turn empty,

That constantly hears, smells and takes notice

To suffer and wither. Yes, this is country.

But, follow the creek to the stony, blue pool,

Sit by the life-giving water, rest your heart and soul.

Hear the singing of ancestors in the gurgling stream.

This is country, this is home.