Water

I begin as a trickle, of melting snowflakes,

High in the mountains as Springtime awakes.

I ooze from the sedges, and springs neath the ground.

Drawn by gravity, it’s downward I’m bound.

I’m one of the elements of antiquity,

The basis of life, I begin clear and free.

It’s water I am, the compound H two O.

They say I am scarce, but it’s really not so.

Most abundant I am on this wonderful earth,

Without me nature, would have been a stillbirth.

 

 As I gurgle along, in my search for the sea,

I’ve been given a name, the Murrunbidgee.

Over rocks past Kiandra, I flow clear and free,

Then I nurture all life in our own A.C.T.

Because that is my votive, my reason for being,

The lifeblood of life, for everything living.

So sing in the rain, but save my runoff,

Lest in the future the rainfall’s far-off.

Though perpetual I am, I’m not here to waste,

For all life depends on my aquatic embrace.

 

With the Goodradigbee I rest, in old Barren Jack,

Before meandering through our arid outback.

‘Cross the Riverine plains, where for millions of years,

I’ve laid down a profile of rich earth veneers,

Just needing my lifeblood to grow and to bloom,

With the food for this world, before I resume,

My journey to where I’m joined by my brothers

That’s Lachlan and Murray, before nature ushers

Into our fold, the Darling, our sister you see;

For our journey of destiny, to our Mother the sea.

 But now I am ailing, but dying I’m not.

 

So what ailment afflicts me I now hear you ask?

Well believe not those, who all seem to bask,

In the self serving glory of media headlines.

Of pillage and plunder that always maligns,

Those who care most for my health and welfare.

These green charlatans all, who seem not to care,

That I’ve been infected with the terrible cancer,

Of European carp and they have not the answer.

For this ecological disaster that is ailing me so,

Now turbid and muddy, my reed beds don’t grow.

It’s ailing I am, but dying I’m not.

 

As I flow on to the lake, called Alexandrina.

I hereby refute what is claimed in the media.

My great river gums, are not dead or dying.

Of those who profess this, well frankly they’re lying.

These gnarled old eucalypts, survive without floods.

They’ve done so for decades, on just a few scuds.

It is only Mother Nature, can send floods so great.

That my dry lakes and wet lands begin to gestate,

With a food chain of plenty, that may last for years.

 Until drought once again, brings back the tears.

It’s ailing I am, but dying I’m not.

 

I now join my Mother the source of all life;

I’m cleaned and refreshed, away from lands strife.

Subsumed in the bounteous source of the clouds,

I begin a new journey as one of the shrouds.

Those cumulonimbus, cirrus, strata and all;

We race over the sea and become a snowfall,

On a high mountain pass I softly alight.

As a protective blanket, all fluffy and white.

I begin as a trickle, of melting snowflakes,

I’m now in the Andes as springtime awakes.

 

Pikey

Murrumbidgee Valley

New South Wales, Australia