THE GREY LAKE (Lake Eyre, South Australia)

Far away to southward The grey lake lies, Thirty leagues of mud, bare To turquoise skies. Shallow, sluggish water, Warm—warm as blood; Not enough to cover The quaking mud. Hot winds drive the water In summer time Southward—and behind them There lies grey slime. Forty miles to westward, A hundred north, Wind-fiends hunt the water Back—back and forth. There are reed-grown islands The eye scarce sees, Grey ooze guarding grimly Their mysteries. Strange Things may survive there, What, who can tell? Monsters old—the lake-slime Can guard them well. No one knows those islands,— The gulls that fly May go near, but others Would surely die. For the wind-scourged water Would flee the ships, And the mud would open Her soft smooth lips. So the isles are sacred From alien tread, Since the slime can swallow And keep her dead. Who can know her secrets? The blue sky might— (Cloudless-hot in daytime, Star-gemmed at night). To and fro for ever The water swings, And the gulls fly over, For they have wings.