Over the plains of the whitening grass <br />and the stunted mulga the drovers pass, <br />and in the red dust cloud, each side <br />of the cattle, the native stockmen ride. <br /> <br />And day after day lays bare the same <br />endless plains as the way they came, <br />and ever the cloven ranges lie <br />at the end of the land and the opal sky. <br /> <br />With creak of pack and saddle leather, <br />and chink of chain and bit together, <br />with moan of the herd with hobble and bell <br />they come to the tanks at the tea-tree well. <br /> <br />And through corroding blood-red hills <br />by sanded rivers the Gulf-rain fills, <br />far, where the morning star has shone <br />and paled above, their tracks are gone.<br /><br />Roland Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-drovers/
