Why I'm walking

In October, between work and life, in either work boots or runners tight,
I will clock up ninety-eight kilometers somewhere, morning, noon or night.
I’m walking for the Flying Docs, who cross the inland sky,
To bring a hand and healing where the roads and hospitals lie.
For I’ve worked in the far-off camps, where dust or snow or brumbies run,
And learned that help is not a thing that’s always quickly done.
In town, a siren’s close at hand, a doctor’s down the street,
Out bush, the nearest helping hand may take a day to meet.
And safety’s more than hard hats, plans, and guarding against harm,
It’s knowing folks can find a cure, a counsellor, a calm.
For bodies fail and spirits bend beneath the outback sun,
And care should reach the furthest place, not just the fortunate ones.
The Government lends a helping hand, but there is always more to do
The planes need fuel and fitting out, and engines must be new.
There’s gear to buy and crews to train, and countless miles to fly,
And every dollar helps them keep those silver birds up high.
So, if you’ve got five dollars spare, then five will do just fine,
A little from a lot of folks can make a mighty line.
For small graces joined by willing hands, as Australians understand,
Can build a bridge across the bush and strengthen every strand.