The Yellow Cart by Myra Morris

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No sound was on the plain
   But the stealthy drip of rain
In the tall, bleached thistle-spires,
   And the wind a-thrum in the wires.

The road lay washed and bare
   With a look of winter-sleep.
Nothing was moving there
   But a trickle of dust-brown sheep.

And then out of the sky
   At the end of the road there came
A butcher's cart that went lolloping by
   Like a chariot of flame.

The wheels revolving spurned
   The jagged ruts with pride,
And the butcher's boy, his face upturned,
   Sang, swaying from side to side.

And the whole dim, desolate place
   Bloomed into light and grace --
For here was the voice of very joy
   Loosed on the lips of a butcher's boy.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 June 1947

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 18, 2014 7:19 AM.

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