It’s blowing cold and bleak
I’ve nothing much to do,
There’s a snowstorm at Fall’s Creek
And my hands are turning blue.
I gaze at a distant snowy peak
And pray for skies of blue.
But I’m stuck here for a week
With a sou-wester coming through.
So I dream of a sun soaked stream
Where the fish are running strong
And think of a campfire dream
And of passing the port along
And stories of places where few have been
Or warm dry nights by a billabong
Where the start-filled skies are best seen
From your welcome swag, where you belong.
Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind.