A cloud of dust on the long white road, <br /> And the teams go creeping on <br />Inch by inch with the weary load; <br />And by the power of the green-hide goad <br /> The distant goal is won. <br /> <br />With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, <br /> And necks to the yokes bent low, <br />The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; <br />And the shining tires might almost rust <br /> While the spokes are turning slow. <br /> <br />With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat <br /> That shades from the heat's white waves, <br />And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, <br />The driver plods with a gait like that <br /> Of his weary, patient slaves. <br /> <br />He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, <br /> And spits to the left with spite; <br />He shouts at `Bally', and flicks at `Scot', <br />And raises dust from the back of `Spot', <br /> And spits to the dusty right. <br /> <br />He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form <br /> In front of a settler's door, <br />And ask for a drink, and remark `It's warm, <br />Or say `There's signs of a thunder-storm'; <br /> But he seldom utters more. <br /> <br />But the rains are heavy on roads like these; <br /> And, fronting his lonely home, <br />For weeks together the settler sees <br />The teams bogged down to the axletrees, <br /> Or ploughing the sodden loam. <br /> <br />And then when the roads are at their worst, <br /> The bushman's children hear <br />The cruel blows of the whips reversed <br />While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, <br /> And bellow with pain and fear. <br /> <br />And thus with little of joy or rest <br /> Are the long, long journeys done; <br />And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- <br />Is distance fought in the mighty West, <br /> And the lonely battles won.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-teams/
