Tags
Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Drought in Queensland, Formal poetry, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Queensland dairy farms, sonnet, Vietnam War
‘69
The rains have come and washed away the dust.
The drought of ’68 is in the past.
The old man talks of selling-up at last —
Another drought like that and we’ll go bust.
Our worn-out ploughs are little more than rust.
The overdraft is climbing way too fast.
With falling prices for our milk forecast,
There’s little chance that we will earn a crust.
Dan’s back from Vietnam — he nearly died;
Was burning up — the Yanks packed him in ice.
War kills in different ways — the fever tried,
But some are not meant for the sacrifice.
He knows my thoughts, and so takes me aside —
Gives me his army boots — and his advice.
— D.N. O’Brien
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