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Artesian Bounty
 



All across this arid country,
blades of windmills spin and creak,
lifting brown artesian liquid,
when summer's drought is at its peak.

Rough-hewn troughs beneath each windmill
store pumped water for the stock;
brackish liquid, mineral-laden,
adequate for thirsty herd or flock.

On flat red plains devoid of trees
the windmills take command,
stretching out towards the heavens
across a grateful, barren land.

Remembering from childhood,
every paddock, every station,
the cockies'* best defences;
Southern Cross# wind irrigation.



* cockie...station owner

# Southern Cross...it seemed that only
this brand were sold. My brother had a
job installing the windmills for several years.








By cherryk

© 2017 cherryk (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Poets choice (challenge has been closed)


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