The Diaries. The Diaries. They wrote of the dew-drops shiny, On the paddock fence wire in the morning. They wrote of the cirrus clouds skimming, Across the azure skies at the dawning. They waxed on about the magpies lyrically carolling, And didn’t leave out the cows on the green grass a’lowing. There’s the pictures of the churches, There’s the pictures of the schools, With the dozen or so children smiling, Barefoot, dressed in patched hand-me-down clothes. Such are the entries random in family history books, Listed, collated, approved, for inquisitive public seek, Old pioneer diaries splendid, of work, childbirth, wealth. Those sombre faces staring, stoic, emotionless, aloof. But who will write of the hand-wringing, From the worry of filling a cupboard bare, The tears wretched of a birth gone so wrong, The burial near the church in that picture there, The hand on the shovel, at a grave ...