Wongan Way/The Breaking of the Drought
The Breaking of the Drought.
Morn, and the dust on red wings flying,
Where flowers are dead, and green grass dying;
The land-breeze like a spoilt child crying—
The Wongan Hills are sighing.
Noon, and the storm-wind fiercely dashing
Through bending forest the tall trees lashing;
The lightning’s eyes ’twixt thunders crashing,
Round the Wongan Hills are flashing.
Afternoon—through the creek-beds creeping
Soon rise the wakened waters leaping,
Till everywhere are torrents sweeping—
The Wongan Hills are weeping.
Evening, and cleansed from all defiling,
With playful drops the moments whiling;
Wrapped in the sunset’s robe beguiling.
The Wongan Hills are smiling.