Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/75

Rh Churning up the black tide in the shallows like yeast. Through the coolabahs, out on the plain, it increased Till we swung with the stride of the dingo-pack, swooping On scent of weak mother with puny calf drooping. Staring eyes, swaying forms o'er the saddle-bow stooping, With the wind in our shirts, grip of knee, grip of rein, Losing ground, falling back, creeping forward again. Behind us the low line of dark coolabah; Overhead a sky spangled by planet and star; And to left, on our shoulder, the mighty Cross flaring. While afoot the quick pulsing of hoof-beats disturbs Moist silence of grasses and salty-leaved herbs.

Steering on by the stars, over hollow and crest; Tingling eyes looking out through a curtain of tears From the slap of the wind over forward-pricked ears, Over forehead and nose stretching out for the west, And into the face of the sombre night staring. Threading in, threading out, through a maze of sand rises That spring either side, loom a moment, then flee: Dim hillocks of herbage and sun-blasted tree, Till again a dark streak of far timber arises; And anon, through the thick of a lignum swamp tearing, Bare tendrils, back-springing, switch sharp on the knee.