Friday, May 25. Weekly Murray Hartin poem recited by Alan Jones on 2GB.


This week, one from the vault called Colours.


What are the colours of Australia? Are they simply green and gold

Or the grey that haunts a city in a winter wet and cold?

Where the drizzle drowns the bitumen, it’s blackness oozing pain

Before swirling down a gutter to find the sea again.

A sea that harbours anger in a pounding mid-year storm

And yet a sea that offers comfort when the weather’s clear and warm,

Where the whitecaps crown an ocean that is every shade of blue,

Crashing to a golden shore, that’s Australia through and through.

See the bright zinc noses glisten beneath hair as black as coal

Or the light blond locks of lifeguards on a Bondi Beach patrol.

But has Australia more to offer than merely surf and sand?

Well the answer to the question lies within the Rainbow Land.

For if you venture far away from the beach and city streets

You might see the golden splendour of a ripened field of wheat.

Or a fresh-ploughed North West paddock on an apparent endless plain

Where the dark brown earth turns darker when it’s drenched by soothing rain

That sings songs upon a tin roof where, underneath, a homestead wife

Is laughing with her children as they drink the smell of life

And this brings a pearly smile to a sunburned farmer’s face

And he gives thanks to the heavens for another act of grace.

Or wander to a valley where the magic fruit of vines

Is caressed by master makers ’til it fills a glass with wine.

A rich burgundy or chardonnay, each a colour in itself,

All destined for the darkness of a dusty cellar shelf.

Keep on heading westward across this wide brown land

And you’ll marvel at The Simpson and its shifting desert sands.

Sun-bleached gold and yellow as they struggle to escape

To an horizon, which by heat-waves has been twisted out of shape.

Then push on to The Centre to see what it holds for you

And you’ll stare in sheer amazement at the sight of Uluru.

The red-hot Rock at midday is a scene you won’t forget

And you’ll watch its colour change as the sun begins to set.

Those harsh and vivid visions which by day were burning bright

Take on softer, pastel hues as they usher in the night.

For Nature is an artist and her canvas is the earth

And each day is a masterpiece transcending mortal worth.

In her rich Australian gallery her paintings have no peer,

From a jet-black moonless night to running water, crystal-clear,

From a snow-capped Kosciuszko to a forest charred by flame

Every worldly colour lies within Australia’s aqua frame.




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