Photo: cdn.newspapi.com.au The current drought in New South Wales.
These Loathsome Days
The dust laments its loss of grass
as the wind whips it to and fro,
while the windmill creaks
and groans to turn a drop,
but the rains have never come.
Call came through this afternoon
that Davo’s shooting sheep,
I guess ours will soon be gone.
There’s nothing for the dogs to do,
no money for the list,
hell, we’ve been down this path before,
and we’ve bounced back,
but I guess I’m older now
and I’m less inclined to fight.
This land of my father’s,
this Eden all dead and dry,
will soon be taken by the bank,
and I’ll be roaming on,
but until the last
I’m standing by,
my eyes fixed for a cloud,
hoping the charity of heaven might come,
O these loathsome bloody days.
©Paul Vincent Cannon