The timber cools beneath the roof, The ledger slows its frantic pace; A city waits for solid proof Of balance in a shifting space. The banks hold tight the rising line, While kitchens count the weekly cost, And quiet towns along the pine Reckon what the season lost. Out past the red dust of the north, The law turns harsh upon the young; A bitter verdict carries forth From weary hands and hardened tongue. Across the glass of glowing screens, The restless currents pull and bind, While mothers wonder what it means To guard a child’s untethered mind. A shadow falls on feather, wing, And wary eyes inspect the plain, Alert to what the winds might bring Across the paddocks, through the grain. Yet memories of a wilder shore Still echo where the bushlands lean— Two decades gone, remembered more In fearless khaki, sunlit green. Come dusk, the winter whistles clear; The turf is marked, the boots are laced. A continent leans in to hear The hard-fought yards, the danger faced. Between the ledger and the roar, A southern rhythm holds the beat, From silent wire to ocean shore, Where tomorrow and the evening meet.
