The creek from the high country trickles on down <br />Through the bare brown paddocks by the old Bushtown <br />Many miles from the nearest big City the place is so quiet <br />And the small bush flies are buzzing in the morning sunlight. <br /> <br />Despite recent heavy rains the creek is quite low <br />And going by local old timers and they ought to know <br />The landscape has never looked so brown and bare <br />And scarce enough of grass here for to support a hare. <br /> <br />In the calm of mid morning beside the brown hill <br />The black and white magpie with the silvery bill <br />The king of his patch and of his territory <br />Pipes on a bare branch of a dead old gum tree. <br /> <br />The dark pale eyed raven his voice one cannot mistake <br />A loud and long drawn out caw the only sound he does make <br />Distinctive in his ways and in his harsh cry <br />From other crows his dark feathery beard him does identify. <br /> <br />The creek flowing at a trickle despite recent rain <br />And the farm dams are low and bone dry every drain <br />From the very long dry spell the landscape looking bare <br />And the small bush flies are buzzing in the morning air.<br /><br />Francis Duggan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-creek-flowing-at-a-trickle/
