The love of rent and profits
Scraped from ochre slopes and plains,
Of proceeds of a violent past,
Is clotting in your veins.
Your love of somewhere else
Lawyers built, bricked and paved,
I can never ever love that place,
For I’m a serf, a simple slave.
You love a brutal country,
A land of legal claims,
Where kids can’t trust strangers,
Syringes and meth pipes block the drains.
You love a land of oligopolies,
Where necessities’ prices gouge us.
And age pensioners are invisible,
Until they can’t pay credit charges.
But I love a country that’s home to heaven’s blessings,
Harvests, pastures, cane fields, nature’s jewels,
This love I share with all those who came here before me,
To a haven for the poor in a cove that brooked no fools.
And I love our beaches and our little hills,
The subtle mysteries of the outback,
Dreamtime wisdom, cloud-kissed blue skies,
Scarlet sunsets, and, amidst the stars, the black.
And, yet, I know, I love a lost vision –
An idea, a quest, perhaps a mirage, mislaid.
But every day I glimpse what might have been,
And I wander in glories that refuse to fade.
Acknowledgement: my heartfelt gratitude and, also, apologies to Dorothea Mackellar