Those Golden Days

The news spread quickly at first.
Those that had the funds just left.
The rest of us followed when
We had the means to survive.

Our families said farewell
To our friends, neighbours and jobs.
Times were exciting but harsh,
But we all shared that vision.

We left from Sydney, bound north.
Many others went southward
In search of wondrous treasures
That fired our hearts and spirits.

The fields were flooded quickly
With people setting up camp,
Then rushing down to rivers
To pan for that precious stuff.

Many perished from the cold
Or scorching heat in summer.
Our spirits never waning
No matter what each day brought.

Those nights they passed like lightning.
A flash of sleep then rising
To trudge the weary miles
With aching back and blisters.

But who would paint a goldfield,
And know just how the colours,
As we had often seen them
In the early morning light?

Those moulded mounds of mullock,
With their tinge of yellowy,
That glistened in the evening
Like specks of diamonds shining.

Now these golden days are over,
With the panning fields so green,
Our flag no longer flying
And the prospectors long gone.

Those days were filled with mateship.
Lord knows we had little else.
We came to search with nothing
And left just empty-handed.