Colour of This Countryside

I am the silver mirror, on the road ahead,
I am the pastel, that paint the picture dry,
I am the yellow stem of grass, waiting for the change,
And I am the ochre soil that keeps beckoning the sky.

I am maroon gibber stone, that leave impressions of no life,
I am the drought that turns, the land to dusty brown,
I am the tinge of green, that sweeps across to change the scene,
When the welcome rain comes tumbling down.

I am the black cross-shadow of the eagle flying high,
I am the white puffed cloud, so lonely drifting by,
I am the colour of this countryside.

I turn to the golden Mulga, when the season says to bloom,
To mingle with the gray-green saltbush on the plains,
I am the backdrop, that edges the horizon,
Of a distant curving mountain range with purple haze.

Flowers breathing out their perfumed stamens,
From taunting greens, searching whites, violet and blue,
Takes on a pollinator, prepares the world for new life,
Reintroduced when the dark gray clouds come into view.

I am the black and white butcherbird, with blended feathers pied,
I am the red dust, that lifts and pinks the sky,
I am the colour of this countryside.

I am seen in death, in a charcoal gray landscape,
Following a lightning strike caused carmine fervid glow,
You will see me as, the tiny lime green shoots,
Returning on the branches, or lignotubers down below.

I am the lemon tinge, just before the sunrise,
I am the golden sun, on azure climbing overhead,
I leave the land to rest, in fiery red,
I am the campfires orange glow, beside the drover’s bed.

I am the colour of this countryside,
The channel, block, riverboat and lock.
The salt, homestead, the wandering stock,
I am the hunger and the pain,
I am the strength, I am the strain,
I interchange…defy…abide…
I am the colour of this countryside.