by Mia Marks

Created on: July 16, 2009

THE THIN RED LINE

The thin red line on the horizon gives warning of a mighty storm.

It's only a matter of time before the earth will be torn.

The thin red line becomes a rolling mountain of dust.

Moving your stock t high ground now becomes a must.

The beginning of the 'wet', the parched land bows down,

To the onslaught of the wind, where only sand can be found.

The arid land waits greedily for the life sustaining rain,

The intense silver lightning, flashing again and again.

Dry river beds lie exposed like open wounds in the land.

Wildlife look for shelter on high ground, an immediate demand.

You try to outdistance the fury that you know is coming,

You can hear on the escarpments, the rain already drumming.

You push the distressed cattle to their limits to reach high ground,

Young calves left behind bawling, they will never be found.

You reach high country and you sit your exhausted horse.

Red dust is now all around, the storm hits you without remorse.

Dust bites your flesh and blinds your eyes, you can't see a thing,

You don't know which way is home, danger waits like a coiled spring.

Your horse's instincts are all you can rely on for now,

You give him his head, through the tempest he begin to plough.

Can we both endure this unforgiving punishment for much longer,

Is this hellbent raging storm going to become much stronger.

Then your horse stirs and picks up a faster pace,

His ears pricked forward, what has he sensed, your heart begins to race.

Then a dim light appears ahead of you, with a cough and a sputter.

You know that familiar noise, the station truck struggling through a gutter.

Tears run down your face, but you pretend it's the rain,

And of all the words you want to hear, though indifference you feign.

Bloody Hell Mum, We Thought You Were Lost.

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