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Mulgaland

Edward S. Sorenson

Out among the mulga ridges and the red sandhills,
    When the wind as if from out an oven blows,
Oft your fancy flits at noontide to the far-off rills,
    Where the laughing, lapping water ever flows.
There’s a hellish glare and glitter on the dry sheep-run
    When the water in the bag is running light
And your horse is wet and weary in the hot noon sun,
    But there comes a glimpse of paradise at night.

There’s a glory all around you when the sun dips low
    On the opal-tinted skyline far away,
Poising like a giant beacon with a soft, red glow,
    That redeems with magic charm the dying day.
And you sometimes wish that summer was just one long night,
    But the quiet dawning has its glory too.
Though the sluggard likes to slumber by the fire’s pale light,
    ‘Tis the hour to get abroad, as drovers do.

In the regions of the mulga when the duststorms rise,
    There’s a longing for the flowers of far away,
Till the swelt’ring ride is over and the long day dies
    With a radiance that paints the drab and grey.
And you feel the grip that holds men to the sun-kissed land,
    Who wouldn’t swap her nights for other noons,
Nor for all the silver beaches of a cold, green strand
    Leave the wide ways and the lignum-lined lagoons.

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