There\u2019s a riverbed of sand<\/p>\n
With wind-blown rippled waves<\/p>\n
And it cuts across the land<\/p>\n
Like a Western Stream behaves<\/p>\n
As it flows out to a lake<\/p>\n
Lying bare beneath the sun<\/p>\n
And the dusty shellfish bake<\/p>\n
Where the waters used to run<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
There\u2019s a lake beside the road<\/p>\n
With a bed of open cracks<\/p>\n
Where the search for water showed<\/p>\n
Just a trail of dusty tracks<\/p>\n
Where the bones that spike the floor<\/p>\n
Show the damage that\u2019s been done<\/p>\n
And the rain will not restore<\/p>\n
Where the waters used to run<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And there’s a mother there with a child<\/p>\n
and a thousand other mouths to feed<\/p>\n
with a waterhole defiled<\/p>\n
where the edges just recede<\/p>\n
and there’s a father there with a heart<\/p>\n
that lies broken at its core<\/p>\n
because where the waters once used to start<\/p>\n
– they don’t run there anymore<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
There’s dry rivers in the west<\/p>\n
Parched billabongs and creeks<\/p>\n
There are waterholes unblessed<\/p>\n
By cloud that never speaks<\/p>\n
And a hundred hot Decembers<\/p>\n
Have now settled in the sun<\/p>\n
In a land that scarce remembers<\/p>\n
Where the waters used to run.<\/p>\n