The wide beaches gleam with a glint of golden money,
The brown nets are tight in the little fishing ships,
The wind sweeps the heath-plains bringing scents of honey,
And ruffling the pools on the narrow sandy strips.
Long since have vanished all the winter's stormy terrors,
But a thin, white spray frosts the tattered tea-tree tips.
For the tea-tree's out in the wild, wild reaches,
The tea-tree's burst into blossom small and frail,
Painting the air of the blue-rimmed beaches,
From Half-Moon Bay on to windy Aspendale!
There's a white rain blown to the sea's faint edges,
Where Carrum lies with her paths spread pale;
And the white gulls sweep over whiter branches
Where Chelsea sleeps 'neath a filmy-petalled veil.
The wee, rosy buds that, breaking whitely, waken,
Look toward the sea with its boats and crusted piles.
Tangled, tortured branches that the savage storms have shaken,
Bursting into blossom over miles, and miles and miles!
Bursting into sweetness while the flitting wrens are singing,
And the happy lovers wander down the sun-splashed, leafy aisles!
For the tea-tree's out where the sea-wind races --
The wild, red cliffs and the shores are a-blow!
Its scent stays caught in the little sunny places
Where the pig-face curls and the green-hoods grow.
Black Rock swims in a haze half-crowing,
White clouds heap on the sky and down below,
The faint air breaks in a mist of magic
Where Frankston dreams 'neath a drift of petalled snow!
First published in The Bulletin, 6 November 1929
