On this September day, winds may howl,

And clouds may gather with a solemn scowl.

Yet wattle blooms, a golden thread,

Weaving light where the sun has fled.

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Amid the storm, its bright hues gleam,

A gentle promise, a whispered dream.

In fields and forests, its flowers sway,

Defying the gloom in a vibrant array.

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Though skies are gray and winds are cold,

The wattle's glow is pure and bold.

A herald of spring, in yellow so bright,

Guiding us through the darkest night.

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So on this day, though the weather’s drear,

We celebrate wattle, its strength so clear.

A symbol of hope, of resilience and cheer,

Shining through the storm, year after year.