By Jan Weldon Veitch
Beneath the endless azure sky
the old town sits in derelict mode,
a victim of the Goyder Line,
where farmers dreams lie in the dust.
Pioneers came to reap
grain and substance from the soil,
But soon their crops failed to grow
In South Australia’s northern land.
Many stayed believing that
better times would soon prevail,
but broken hearts were all it gave,
on unforgiving wretched soil.
The ghosts of yesteryear are gone
their mournful cries no longer heard,
across the windswept barren land
that once was promise to their dreams.
Old dwellings stand, their crumbling bones
testament to labours past,
tall chimneys pointing heavenwards
as if in search of long lost prayer.
An eagle-hawk on gliding wings
surveys the town of rubbled rock,
it’s piercing tone an eerie shriek
that echo’s over sterile ground.
The graves of those lost long ago
stand in monumental grief,
their names forever etched in stone
sufferers of a savage land.
Wilson town stands alone
on the northern windswept plains
there is no movement or no sound,
as slowly it returns to sand.
Copyright Jan Weldon-Veitch 2020