From the wooded foothills of the pied currawong <br />The creek from the high country babbles along <br />Through the old brown dry paddocks by night and by day <br />For to join the big river on it's sea going way. <br /> <br />The old local bloke with hair white as snow <br />Says in his eighty years he's not seen it so low <br />Many of the smaller creeks that feed it at present bone dry <br />It hasn't rained here since early July. <br /> <br />By the homes of the grey roo and the pale eyed crow <br />Above the brown gravel it trickles on slow <br />Through overgazed paddocks where rank thistles grow <br />On to the big river it ever does flow. <br /> <br />This countryside with lots of moisture could do <br />A week of good rainfall having said that two <br />Many of the local farmers have moved to elsewhere <br />For to start a new life in the big towns out there. <br /> <br />And though there isn't much water left in any drain <br />The creek from the foothills it's babble retain <br />And across the dry paddocks where rank thistles grow <br />The thirsty winds down through the south country blow.<br /><br />Francis Duggan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-creek-from-the-high-country-babbles-along/
