H'work w/e 16.12.19 - GOING HOME TO ALICE
Posted: Mon Nov 25, 2019 11:43 pm
GOING HOME TO ALICE ... Maureen Clifford © #TheScribblyBarkPoet
There's a track heads north to Alice and it's not for the fainthearted,
for the country that it travels through is harsh and dry and hot
it's a road that is less travelled, one that's seen folks bogged or stranded
in the wet when it's impassable and some folks lost the lot.
There's a string of working camels heavy laden, moving slowly,
puffing dust from feet like dinner plates as through red sand they plod.
Here the land reaches forever, to the far distant horizon
and a bloke has time to think out here and commune with his God.
As for trees? Well short and stunted ... its mainly Bluebush and Saltbush
dots the plains out here - this godforsaken place is hot and dry
although coming close to Marla there are Bloodwood and some Mulga
but the creeks all run on empty underneath a burning sky.
Travelling on I see the ranges, the Palmer and MacDonnell
now my heart is beating faster for I know I'm nearly home
and in my imagination I can hear, my people singing
The ancient ones invoking now the curse of bleached white bones.
The scenery is spectacular - this is Arrernte country
Home of Albert Namatjira, and his final resting place
With his paints he captured beauty, painted all he saw around him.
A man of gentle dignity, who sadly fell from grace.
Harry Lasseter is buried here, and his secrets died with him,
he claimed he'd found a gold rich reef - west of MacDonnell range.
Perhaps he did. But sadly there are no others who saw it
and the story now is legend, stories, told, retold, exchanged.
But I'm coming into town now and my feet are winging homeward
I've no timetable to keep to and I've no itinerary.
Just a month or so of freedom, and some spare cash I can eke out
'till the lure of Coober Pedy calls once more and beckons me.
There's a track heads north to Alice and it's not for the fainthearted,
for the country that it travels through is harsh and dry and hot
it's a road that is less travelled, one that's seen folks bogged or stranded
in the wet when it's impassable and some folks lost the lot.
There's a string of working camels heavy laden, moving slowly,
puffing dust from feet like dinner plates as through red sand they plod.
Here the land reaches forever, to the far distant horizon
and a bloke has time to think out here and commune with his God.
As for trees? Well short and stunted ... its mainly Bluebush and Saltbush
dots the plains out here - this godforsaken place is hot and dry
although coming close to Marla there are Bloodwood and some Mulga
but the creeks all run on empty underneath a burning sky.
Travelling on I see the ranges, the Palmer and MacDonnell
now my heart is beating faster for I know I'm nearly home
and in my imagination I can hear, my people singing
The ancient ones invoking now the curse of bleached white bones.
The scenery is spectacular - this is Arrernte country
Home of Albert Namatjira, and his final resting place
With his paints he captured beauty, painted all he saw around him.
A man of gentle dignity, who sadly fell from grace.
Harry Lasseter is buried here, and his secrets died with him,
he claimed he'd found a gold rich reef - west of MacDonnell range.
Perhaps he did. But sadly there are no others who saw it
and the story now is legend, stories, told, retold, exchanged.
But I'm coming into town now and my feet are winging homeward
I've no timetable to keep to and I've no itinerary.
Just a month or so of freedom, and some spare cash I can eke out
'till the lure of Coober Pedy calls once more and beckons me.