Colin F. Jones

OZ

Here in the south the summer fires do rage,
The fierce red flames deforming bush and tree,
While men against its heat a war do wage,
As from their homes afire some people flee.
Yet all across the north the wild winds blow,
Teeming rain paws down and rivers flood,
The levies fail to hold the desperate flow
That surges through the towns and neighbourhoods.
In the west the desert land is dry,
Flat Arid plains and hills and rocky mounds,
While along the eastern beaches it is fine,
No fire and flame and absent are the clouds.
Tis sure a land of many different climes,
Expressed by many poets in many rhymes.