by Rex Ingamells (1913-1955)
Macquarie Harbour jailers lock
the sullen gates no more
but lash-strokes sound in every shock
of ocean on the dismal rocks
along that barren shore.
No more the bolters hear the hound
that bays upon the wind,
and terror-spurred kept onward-bound
until they drop upon the ground
starved and terror-pinned.
But gales that whine among the hills
sniff at the savage tracks
the hopeless took. The snowfall fills
bleak ranges; then the moonlight spills
broad arrows on their backs.
About the Author
See our page on Rex Ingamells. Includes a linked list of all his writing available on our website.
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