He longs to see the spring this year,
And how the wattles foam
In yellow waves round the austere
And quiet hills of home.
Bush birds in dawning's breaking dim,
At evening's twilit door;
In vain, in vain they call to him,
Poor prisoner of war.
And what can springtime mean to her
Behind the factory wall?
The loud machines' alternate whirr,
The hammer's rise and fall.
Day after day she holds the fort,
Gives service swift and sure
At bench and wheel, another sort
Of prisoner of war.
Oh, spring winds, borne from bush and sea,
Waft her a promise plain
Of that dear time that is-to-be
When they shall meet again.
And pray kind Fate it may befall
That peace will soon restore
Freedom and home to each and all
Poor prisoners of war.
First published in The Australian Women's Weekly, 22 April 1944
