In the hard, bright, shining Sun,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
The family gathered despite the drought,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
And the women were dressed in their brightest things,
The babies chewed on their teething rings,
While the men discussed what the weather brings.
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
 
Uncle Charlie and I, we sat outside,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
I had told him my job, of my soldierly pride,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
As we sat in the shade with our glasses of port
I had no idea what the old man thought
As I described the Army and those of my sort
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
 
When I had finished he poured more port from the flagon,
There in the Mallee, there in the South,
As we sat in the shade of an old hay wagon,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
He said to me 'son, I think if you must
Serve in the Army, that's fine, but just
What do you actually do for a crust?'
He said, there in the Mallee, there in South.
 
In the hard, bright, shining Sun,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
The family gathered despite the drought,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
While the men discussed what the weather brings
And the babies chewed on their teething rings
Uncle Charlie and I spoke of other things
There in the Mallee, there in the South.

The space between the Mallee roots
is where the fire breathes in the grate
it slowly stirs and shifts
and shows it is alive
and full of nothing more
than its smoky-scented heat
and blood-red glowing coals.

© M.L. Emmett

Wheresoever went the way
Of Wycheproof's bright Summer day
Way back then, back then when wheat was King
With bountiful supply
You could hear the growers sigh.
As the tills began, abundantly, to ring.

With silos overflowing
And wheat trains ever growing
In Wycheproof, back then,
When wheat was King
With the young girls laughing happy
And the blokes all dressing snappy
Prosperity led Wycheproof, to sing.

But then an apprehension
When this "Climate Change", was mentioned,
Dismissed as merely "here-say" by all,
For "What is now has always been"
With life in Wycheproof, serene,
"What tragedy, could possibly, befall?"

Now Wycheproof is Mallee dry
Where wealthy men complain and cry
When hot northerlies whip topsoil to the wind
As it parachutes a million miles
Which is fine for Wimmera wheatmen's smiles,
Fine and dandy for the growers living there....
But for locals un-empowered,
Watching windblown topsoil scoured,  
There's a seriousness in Wycheproof's despair.

No topsoil means ya can't grow wheat
And the shortened seasons growth, deplete,
Dust storms are primarily....THE FEAR!
Surmount successions mounting debt
And final deadlines... all unmet
Foreclosures ...are chewing up the cheer!

Wycheproof these days is still
No man nor beast on flat or hill,
The shops are looking derelict and closed
And the pub' though selling beer,
Is indisposed and rather queer
For there's no wheat.... and no joy fills the day.
Future's looking bleak
And it's getting hotter, so to speak,
in  Wycheproof ... and ****** all to say.

M.
February 8 2021