I guess you’d say the rain had gone,
to a place so far away.
We didn’t know if he’d ever come back,
in a week, a month, a day.

I remember when I was a boy,
down by the river, near the oak we’d be.
The clouds would roll in and down she’d pour.
And turn that river into a sea.

We, I mean me mate –n- me.
We’d play from morn-til-night.
And dodge out chores as best we could.
Then fear for our flamin lives.

Me Dad was tough, but an O.K. bloke,
a strong man on the farm.
But when that rain did go away,
it’d damn near make him cry.

Cos’ ya see this land, aint just a farm,
and to me not just a home.
It’s me blood, me life, me everything,
me heart and every aching bone.

But the rain’s our mate to Dad and me.
To the land it’s breath to lung.
But he’s gone away, left us to bake,
in this crule tormentin sun.

So what’s a man to do,
if he can’t change the weather?
Our mates deserted us for good,
our land has turned to desert.

So today’s like no other,
we hitch our cart to horse.
We leave behind our land our lives,
as we steer a lonely course.

We used to be a team, ya see,
me Dad, the land and me.
Our mate the rain would visit sometimes,
as it crossed our big brown country.

But we can’t stop here a minute more,
our hearts would turn to stone.
Our mates gone roamin way up north,
somewhere far from home.

So where-ever we may wander,
no matter were we’d be.
If we find our mate again,
how elusive he may be.

We’ll ask him why he left us,
and tell him of our despair.
How we took him so for granted,
he might think we didn’t care.

Me dad and me will dropp to knees,
and plead him to come back home.
To make this land we love so much,
back into a farm we called our home.

Mark Boyle

by Mark Boyle

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