The
Fickle Mulga Lands
By
Dan Ferguson
They rest at last on the hot ochre
earth
swatting flies with callused
hands.
What reward a life of toil since
birth?
in the fickle Mulga Lands.
Now the skies persist
tight-fisted
and the sheep are on rations
again.
The cattle have been sold or
agisted
to old agents who are no longer
friends.
But once it rained three days and
nights
flashing seas over pans of clay.
The stock drowned in floodwaters in
fright
were planned for muster the very next
day.
Then fresh growth withered and tinder scrub
fuelled fire
that didn’t fuss over that it
devoured.
All that lived, died wailing in
choir
in by far their darkest hour.
But despite grave anguish and
headaches
their dreams are as strong as the
start.
Like braided western channels nourish
southern lakes,
aspiration in their veins course vigour to
their hearts.
And they muse each day’s one closer
to rain,
as dormant seed waits patient for
change.
That tufts rested from grazing will rise
again
after clouds ascend from behind the
range.
And when flood engulfs this land in
water
and spreads silt fresh from rock older than
time
Earth’s elements preserved in stone
will remind her
to restore a withered landscape back to its
prime.
So there they stayed until end of
day
and watched the sun set dramatic lilac and
red
as backdrop to their private brolga
ballet
a grand reward for toil
ahead…
In the fickle Mulga Lands.
Dan Ferguson
Past Programs Manager
South West NRM Ltd
December 2003
