Poetry

The Digger (Apologies to Rupert Brooke)

The Digger (Apologies to Rupert Brooke)

If I should cark it, think only this of me
     That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is terra Australis. There shall be
     In that red earth a mate of yours concealed;
A bloke Australia bore, shaped, made aware,
     Gave, once, her sand to scorch, her bush to whack;
A mate, Australian, breathing hot summer air,
     Salt in his stubble. Sunburn on his back.

And think, this heart, guiltless as a little tyke
     A pulse in the eternal outback-beaten heat,
Gives somewhere back the light Australia’s giv’n;
     Her bronze and golden dreams; her sunset sky;
And laughter, learnt of mates, who’ve bugger’d it
     Their hearts sleeping, under an Aussie sun.

2 thoughts on “The Digger (Apologies to Rupert Brooke)”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s