|I too, love a sunburnt country,|
And I love its sweeping plains.
I can tolerate our years of drought,
And our destructive flooding rains,
But I hate the sight of wind farms,
That in our rural lands abound.
I hate their jerking, twitching arms,
And their swishing, hissing sound.
I hate the way they blight our view,
Of our once proud fertile soil.
I hate their ghastly ghostly hue,
Where farmers used to toil.
I hate the endless sleepless nights,
And the headaches that they bring.
I hate the ugly metal sites,
Which used to bloom in spring.
And instead of trees and fields and flowers,
And clear blue open sky,
We see slicing blades and tall white towers,
Where eagles used to fly.
So take these monstrous things somewhere,
And build them far away,
Where our deserts have more room to share,
And the wind blows every day.
[Note: The estate of Dorothea Mackellar has not authorized this poem in the style of and referring to “My Country”. It is presented here as commentary and criticism in the public interest.]
Click here to download a recording of “Windfarms” read by Andrew Pritchard, as authorized by Malcolm Mackellar (4-MB MP3).
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