The Flying Doctor's Coming

The Flying Doctor's Coming

We'd just flown in to Coopers Creek, we'd put the aircraft down,
And all around the wing tips forged the tiny outback town
The sea of faces, strained, distraught, their outback conga thronged,
And soon I fixed the stricken face to where the voice belonged.

"It's Jan Maclean from Boorooloo. Please, God, you've got to try ..."
"Our Tim got in the bore drain, Doc. Without your help he'll die."
From routine flight to mercy dash, with the mighty engines humming,
"We're closing on the Cooper, Jan. The Flying Doctor's Coming."

With lightning crackling overhead, we'd kept in constant touch.
We tried to calm the mother, when the minutes meant so much.
Now underneath in parallel, the runway fires glowed,
Through people in the headlights of the cars along the road.

We knew life was leaving Tim. His little face was blue.
We checked for breath and heartbeat as the whole town checked it too;
And red stained eyes searched for the glimpse of God's own Son, begotten,
As friends and family found the prayers they thought they had forgotten.

With the skills of man and medicine, we fought for little Tim,
As I thought of the Flying Doctor, and its founding father, Flynn;
And 'midst the sprawling vastness like a mirage in the air,
Through the tingling of a heartbeat, I could sense John Flynn was near.
"Come on Timmy, you can do it!" prayed our frail and fractured force.
Like signal men we waited for Tim's tiny tap of Morse.

Seconds, precious seconds, scourged the hearts of town and crew.
The toddler's chest seemed lifeless, there was little we could do.
As anger and frustration took their brushes to the faces,
A father and a mother wished for Tim a trade of places.

Then a bolt of lightning struck in close, it singed the heated air.
Tim's father's voice in anguish cried to Christ, "It's just not fair!
"You took our hearts, You sent the drought that killed our little run,
"Then when our backs were partly turned, You took our baby son."

The rain in sheets now pounded down, in flashes silver green.
My fingers felt a little 'thump'. I screamed, "A pulse! ... The screen!"
Like a violin first pale and thin, like the heart of a just born bird,
We watched the rhythm, stronger now. Breathless. Not a word.

Tim's little frame now pumped with life, and a cheer was duly earned.
A two year old, a toddler, to the Cooper had returned;
And assembled down below us, as our right wing bid adieu,
The people of the Cooper waved their thanks from Boorooloo.