some writings of Pamela Marion Barrington MBE



Wild Bells of Easter Morn

After the sorrowing mourning of Good Friday,
Dark sombre and full of awesome dread,
The wild bells of Easter morn ring with joy
For He is risen and we have eternal life.

What about the children for whom Easter Day
Is yet another day in the long catalogue of days,
Who look forward to nothing more beautiful
Than, hopefully clean water, food and full belly.

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Wild Bells of Easter

Easter is when the great and awesome majesty of Azrael
The all powerful and all merciful Angel of Death
Occupies our thoughts as we prepare on sad Good Friday
For the glorious dawning of Easter Day and the Risen Lord.

If it was your child who had so little time on earth
Would you not yearn for a longer life and a good one?
You would want fun and love filled days of laughter-
Not sorrow, tragedy, hunger and the Four Horsemen.

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Where Have All the Children Gone?

‘Where have all the children gone?’ they cried –
Those citizens of fourteenth century Hamelin town,
For the children disappeared without a trace –
Because men were dishonest and denied their word.

Surely we do not want to visit once fair Africa
And cry out ‘where have all the children gone?’
To see no more those laughing, friendly brown faces
Split wide with ear to ear happy grins.

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The Wearisome Burden

Oh weary is the burden that I carry o’er the fields –
Fields is a useless word for an empty dry desert.
I need fertile places for life and to be a shield
Against the ravages of hunger, starvation and horrid death.

Do you wonder that I look at you with envy and scorn?
You have too much for your needs and those of family –
Into misery, despair, degradation my offspring is born
Because to you I am a ‘no account’ sort of human being.

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What David Alexander Might have said

(he might even endorse it)

I have seen the silos at Stockinbingal –
A name to remember in my dreaming.
Out on the western plains far from the city,
I saw the real Australia – I saw Stockinbingal.

They of the S.C.F. took me here and they took me there,
From Sydney’s sprawling west to Kempsey on Macleay,
To Purfleet on the Manning, Gosford by Brisbane Water,
I met a people warm and kind who all cared about children.

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Weary Way

Oh weary is the world and weary is the way –
As I tramp over my once rich pastures
I wonder what I have to do to be blessed
With all the riches that go beyond avarice.

My children are born and then they slowly die.
Will no child of mine carry my genes onward
Must everything stop with me because I lack
Even the very means to keep my flesh alive.

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