Homecoming

Filled to the brim with social engagement,
Bad food, and the stimulation of new places.
My children regroup in the three hour car journey.
A few 'grizzles' on route.
The odd altercation.
Generally quiet resting prevails.
Then arrival,
Slowly pile out disheveled,
From a car of disorganised detritus.
Then the loathsome job of unpacking when you are tired.
But the kids;
Well like I said;
'Regrouped!'
Ready to start the party.

Long and Winding Road

Car travel,
Long repeated journeys,
Over remembered corrugations.
Pot holes and blind corners,
Wildlife hot spots.

The car filled with detritus of unemployed children:
Wrappers, hair ties, odd socks, empty water bottles and discarded toys.
Chorus from the backseat:
"What town is this?
Are we stopping here?"

Your mind wanders,
As do your eyes into a stranger's life.
Till a close call with oncoming traffic,
Draws your attention abruptly back.

You think through the day,
Your week, your life.
Re-run or plan discussions in your head.
You try to keep your eyes focused,
Ignore their drooping fatigue.

Prolonged travelling,
This is the tiring reality,
Of those who choose to live in the bush.

The General Store

It's the beating heart.
Not racing so much these days.
Ever evolving.
Has become the Butcher, Newsagency, Fruit Barn, Bank,
And recently Post Office.
It stands almost alone.
The blank faces of the closed businesses look on,
Display windows of dust and dead blowies.
The bustling activity inside is a welcome sign of life.
Shoppers and staff welcome each other with genuine interest and affection
Service is paramount.
The stock on the shelves reflects individuals' tastes:
Colgate, Heinz, Chum and Pecks Anchovite.
And decreases at the same rate as the population.
To shop here is to embrace your community.
Yet there are those,
Feigning poverty,
Who empty their petrol tanks to get to Aldi.






.

Student Free Day

Today was a student free day.
Student free, but not of course teacher free.
Conversation less restrained.
No packed lunch.
Holiday stories exchanged.
Timetables adjusted and curriculum planned.
Enrolments speculated.
Managing recalcitrant and demanding parents?
Strategies discussed.
Lessons and excursions organised.
Resources located.
Post opened.
Classrooms readied
And in your minds eye,
As you are driving home,
You see them before you,
With eager faces and new uniforms,
Your students.

Rushing

I
Rush, rush, rush!
Tightly coiled spring
Potential energy about to break out
Without purpose
Adrenalin pumped
High focus
Poor judgement
Energy quickly spent
Like a blown out candle

Wine and Good Company

The warm aromas greet you at the door
Caramelising flesh sweetness of fresh greens
Drop your bags and take a seat ringside
Ephervesant sparkles hit your glass
Introductory and catch up conversation
Smiles and questions
Gossip
Platter brimming
Anticipation building
Each portion seved
Toasts made
Then we dine
Conversation flows smoothly as wine

The Chaos of Return

We're all back.
The whole family.
Together again.
Bang and crash,
Bodies and belongings,
In through the back door.

Sunburn, bee sting
And dirty washing.
Tired and overexcited.
Running inside
Squeals and screams
Too many requests

"Can I .....?"
"Could I.....?"
"Could you....?"
"Not right now, we aren't even in the door."
"I've got to make dinner."
"You've got all day tomorrow."

Then, as one by one,
The chaos of childhood retires
 I take a moment at the kitchen table.
The dinner dishes.

Yes, I've got all day,
Tomorrow.

The Rush of Leaving

Heart in my throat
Have I remembered
Everything?
All the animals fed?
The chooks water?
In this heat they go through so much.
I hope the sheep have enough.
It'll take ages if I have to fill their trough too.
Is that going to be enough food for the guinea pigs?
Piglets will be right they've got heaps.
Sorry doggies,
Can't let you off the chain today.
Don't look at me like that Opal.
No time for apples.
It's already eight and I haven't packed.
Just toss in a frock and a change of undies.
Toilet bag.
Thongs will be ok.
Better take a cardi.
That'll do or I will never get out of here.
Heart in my throat.
I never feel ready.

Josh the Farrier

He arrives in a Toyota ute.
As arranged,
But I had forgotten.
Steel box on the back,
Doors flung open to retrieve his tools
Dons the leather chaps.
Carries a hoof stand, knife and file.
She's not keen.
Moves her foot and pushes with her head.
Kicks over the stand.
Dogs eye the shavings with anticipation.
I hold her head and try to reassure her.
I watch that she doesn't try to bite.
He's  gentle, softly spoken,
Knowledgeable,
Refreshingly polite and respectful.
We discuss breeding and attitude and Latin.
Hippopotamus means water horse.
Probably have a common ancestor.
Ten minutes and the job is done.
And that it for another six weeks or so.
Our ponies' podiatry

Awaiting the Storm

Oppresive.
Humidity and heat.
Brain crushing air pressure.
Invisible forces aiding gravity to drag....
Drag you down.
With all the plans you had for the day.
You watch them go down the drain,
Along with your desires, good intentions, optimism and energy.
The afternoon crawls at the same pace as you complete your chores.
The pressure in your head reaches a climax.
And just when you feel you can endure it no longer,
Something breaks.
It arrives with gentle rumblings,
Darkening skies and welcome, restorative breeze.
Two black cockatoos pass overhead,
Harbingers,
'Squwaaaaking' at intervals.
Now is the time to sit on the verandah and await the majesty,
Of the storm.

Cows

Don't you just love cows?
Their large heads.
Dark docile eyes,
With curling eyelashes.
Their interest in your activities.
They casually saunter over to check you out.
Bulk moving on dainty toes,
Large painted nails.
The warm belly against your cheek as you milk.
Swish, swish into the bucket.
Their gangly calves with sandpaper tongues.
And swirls in their soft coats.
Tottering warily about you.
One eye on escape.

It's Raining

It's raining it's pouring,
My three 'piggies' are snoring.
Too well fed,
And slumbering in their bed.
Their feed could have waited till morning.
The cow's in the milk bail
And the calf is too.
How to separate them?
Shoo calf shoo!
She looks so pathetic
Coat streaming with wet.
And I've still the dogs,
To let off for a run yet!
Rain Rain go away.
Please come again another day.

When I don't have to feed, untie or separate the animals.

Singing the Cosmos

What is it about singing,
That makes you feel so...
Alive?
To sing alone,
That is soul enriching,
But to sing with others,
Is like a form of communion.
Yes you are together,
Voices in harmony.
More than that.
It is like when the notes combine,
In rhythms and chords,
In sympathy with our breath and beating hearts,
What is produced is a key to the very
Cosmos.
Together we are singing the universe.

Shearing

When shearers take a break,
Off goes the loud country music.
The rouses with aspirations have a go.
The others sweep the locks from beneath the table
They tidy the bags for stain and pieces.
The shearers after a quick bite and a fag
Stretch their now unbent backs on the board
A rolled up towel as a pillow.
If the weather is cool,
Like at crutching time,
They may cover themselves with a coat or blanket.
I have seen one sleeping in the pieces at lunchtime.
The dogs help pen up more sheep
Then at the precise tick of the clock
On goes the music.
Loud enough to be heard through ear plugs.
And the first ewes are dragged out backwards,
across the board.
And then the dance begins.
Until the partner is unceremoniously,
Shoved down the chute,
Only to be replaced by another.

One hundred and twenty five ks to Pony Club

"Noorinbee!
She came from Noorinbee?
Don't they have Pony Club at Cann?"

"Apparently not."

"What a shame,
They had a really good gymkhana.
One hundred and twenty five k,
To come to Pony Club."

Our rural communities are dying,
Despite 'our' love for them.
Timber industry gone.
"Don't worry,
So many opportunities for Eco-tourism."
Yeh right.

Plantation companies buying up the land
Obscure our views with
Horrible horrible pine.
Empty farms.
No farm families.
Derelict houses.
"They'll bring more work."
Yeh right
Go bust.
Owe money everywhere.

We have to cut public service jobs.
No more public land managers.
One ranger to do the work of five.
No foresters, (no timber industry remember.)

Amalgamate the Shires
Worsening roads.
"Did you know it took a week before they removed that tree?
I had an extra forty k to get to work."
"Well no other bastard would cut it off,
Because they don't pay their bills,
Those contractors."

Less families.
Less kids.
Less schools.
Less teachers.
Less shops.

No Doctor!
Hospital becomes a nursing home.
"That's ok, take your sick child to Cooma,
Or Orbost."
So many choices!

Yes, she drove one hundred and twenty five k to come to Pony Club.
One way!

Looking into the Land

I write this poem and I know I look toward a view,
Which a Kurnai family looked out up on,
Not so long ago.
Although obscured by trees.

I know this from the tools they left behind.
I find them when I dig out potatoes,
Or make a new hole for a fence post.
Stones fashioned with sharp edges.
Worn river stones with ground indentations.
Also small lumps of red clay-stone.
Completely misplaced in their habitat of quartz and granitic sand.

Sometimes I feel pleasantly haunted.
I imagine people's song,
In the swirling, rustling of forest leaves.
I think about them as I walk,
Mindfully.
I can imagine them singing their country,
Their foot-falls in unison with their beating hearts,
Like my own.

It is said,
this valley means possum.
In my mind I see,
Mothers in possum skin cloaks,
Their babes bundled snugly on their backs.
The Kurnai are coastal people,
But our valley stands on a 'way'.
A well walked route to the higher Monaro plains.

I  like to dream and draw,
The ancient earth creatures,
Said to inhabit this land;
Dimbulan, Dulagar, Nyol, Bagini.
they enliven my imagination.

I feel enriched by this place,
and all I survey.  

Eddie's Shed

Like a well worn pair of hand knitted socks with the heels darned,
The woolshed has the homespun beauty of simple objects.
Like the board and wool room floor,
The rickety homemade wool table is tarnished,
With the grime of lanolin.
It has a soft surface that creates a subtle resistance,\
To palm or footfall.
Table legs are squared,
One with a brick,
Another with broken palings.
Uneven floor sunken,
And in parts missing.
This makes sweeping the locks a challenge.
In pertinent places ancient nails,
Driven into beams,
To hold packs for stain and skin pieces.
Like sagging matrons in middle age,
The wool bins for AAAM, Tender and Coloured fleece,
Are almost dowdy with their lack of symmetry.
They bulge in places generally misshapen.
The odours of sheep and their excrement are not overpowering,
They mingle complimenting the eau de cologne,
Of men's sweat, stale cigarettes and kelpie.
The next run begins,
As does the music,
Loud,
And Slim Dusty has joined us,
As the Ringer from The Top End.

Newcomer

Flecks of grey around the face reveal her age.
Her Stocky, round body is still sound.
Her feet tiny with perfectly rounded, dark nails.
Cropped hair.
Spiky fringe.
Dark eyes look into the distance,
Unfathomable, but not unkind.
We have yet to discover her personality.
All of her twelve hands,
Our new pony, Opal.

Drawbacks of Rainwater Tanks.

Water was 'whiffy',
As it rose in the tub,
Showering down on me.
I was sure.
Not the toilet,
Or re fluxing laundry sink.
The tank water we drink
Woke with a dodgy tummy.
Psychosomatic perhaps.
No one else sick.
Oldest tank on the shed,
Clean, clear water.
House tank,
Clean clear water.
Carry ladder, screwdriver, stilsons and net,
Up to the header tanks on the hill.
First fully sealed,
Clean clear water.
Pipe pokes out from the second,
Gaping hole.
Familiar smell,
Death and decay.
Climb, unscrew to remove lid.
Suicidal possums.

Finding the right pace

Farm life can be,
At times unstructured,
Beyond milking and feeding stock.
A list of jobs,
Essential.
As too,
Good communication between the farmers.
Yet the tasks are inexhaustible.
Requiring military style stratagem.
Order of operations,
Essential.
Watering at Midday?
Fencing at Midday?
Anything at Midday in this heat?
But how to fit it all in.
Get up earlier?
Difficult when you retire late.
It seems logical that;
'Cart before the horse',
Has rural origins.

Persistence

Persistence
That's how the goats,
Finally break through our fences.
They spy a delectable wattle,
Delicious native raspberry,
Our orchard.
Push and pull.
Twisted necks and other contortions.
Heads and horns defy the electric wire,
Then shoulders,
And they're through.
Ripping limbs,
Long strings of bark.
Delicately nibbling tender green leaves.
Ring barking.
Till our cherished trees,
Stand naked and torn.
I gasp dismayed.
Today we will fortify the 'barb' with hinge joint.

Summer Camp

Away from home all week,
Camping with three hundred Scouts.
In our fragile shelters,
At the whim of weather,
All that nature can toss;
Heat, humidity and sudden storms.
3, 6, 9, 12, bang, rumble, rumble.
 "Hathi!
Did you know that you can tell how far away the lightning is,
By counting in threes?"
Tiny flies in eyes and ants in pants.
And in tents too.
"They're in my tiny teddies and all through the tent."
Biting sun rays,
Grilling flesh.
" No scout leaves this site without a collared shirt, full brimmed hat sunscreen and water bottle.
Well you had better put on your scarf then."
Mozzies.
'Stop Itch.'
Hard ground, poor sleep,
Bags under eyes.
Unique scouts
And leaders.
Insecurities and quirks.
Gentleness, patience and generosity.
Tricks, jokes and game of Mao.
Different lives.
Different needs,
Coming together.
Shared language;
PLs, APLs
BRAVO!
Badges and cords.
"I lost the game!"



  !

Night Noises

9:40 pm
Matthew blogs.
Tink, tink, tink.
Kitchen clock,
Tick, tick, tocks.
Attracted by the luminosity,
Christmas beetles,
 Buzz, bang.
And intermittently,
Tap, tap, buzz, buzz, tap,
The blackened windows.
A bubble escapes the air lock,
From our fermenting currant wine,
Blop.........blop.
Fluorescent light overhead,
Subtly screams high pitched,
In unison with the low whirring of the fridge,
And my mid range tinnitus.

Midsummer Days

Too, too hot,
On these Midsummer days.
My children are inside retreating from the scorch.
For a while they read in various contortions of repose.
Then precariously they play a card game.
Until inevitably competition causes tears and fists of retribution.

Then outer clothing is replaced by splendid embellishments.
Expressive dancers slink to the beat of an ' eighties ' crooner.
Two fairies and a ninja live in an elaborate, fantastical world of their own creation.

On goes the pump to water the garden.
In knickers, jocks and singlets,
 Ear piercing squeals join the chorus of the petrol motor.
The shock of cold water on warm skin is too much.

An Italian Affair

It's the zing on the tongue,
And tang of aged cheese.
Indescribable,
That lingering sensation,
That is garlic.
Nutty masculine essence of a European forest.
Fresh and moist.
It's the sweet, sharp aroma that sends my mind,
Wine dampened,
To sun drenched Mediterranean hills.
Subtly citric,
Extra virgin.
Grind, grind, grind....
Inhale....
Mmmmmm
The creation of fresh basil pesto.

Garlic Braiding Time

It's garlic braiding time.
They lay on their newspaper bed,
Soil encrusted roots now dry,
Translucent skin flaking,
Stalks brown and bending.

I choose them in nines.
Magic number perhaps.
Or maybe I just like it,
The uniformity.

First dirty layers slough off in my hands.
Collect the bulbs.
Cut the roots off.
Secateur slice the cooking string,
That is fresh, clean and white as the new year.

I plait together the first three bulbs.
Left, right, left, right,
Left.
Add the fourth.
Right.
And so it goes till the braid curls.
A long plait to finish.
Not always knowing when to stop.
A surgeon's knot
Another turn of the strings.
Another.
A reef knot secures it.
Figure of eight to make its hanging loop.

Finishing,
I look across at those that remain unbraided.
And contemplate what to do with those too small to make the final cut.

So many ducks

Ducks, ducks, ducks,
Everywhere ducks.
Fouling dams of ducks.
Married couples amble through the long grass,
Their 'lings' in close procession.
Drakes feigning injury lead my car down the drive.
I hear the chorus of their wings,
As they lift in unison.
Squelch in their excrement,
Stepping barefoot out of the back door.

Use by date

Our chickens are designed with a use by date.
Best by thirty five days,
Under best conditions.
Heated shed.
Our chickens have a shed,
Only heated when they were little chicks.
We make them go outside.
We put out their water and feed.
To make them move,
Their feed is at multiple stations.
Otherwise they would sit and gorge themselves.
They lumber like obese geriatrics.
They sit after a few see sawing steps.
Chicken bellies are raw and pink from the ground.
They arrived twenty five golden fluff balls,
Beaks already pecking.
Voracious.
Growing twice the rate of our home incubated Sussex.
Now past their 'Best by',
We hope they survive till chopping day.
It rained
Two enormous cleavaged breasts heaving for air,
Succumbed to pneumonia,
Slowly turning blue.
I read once that chickens are shedded for their own protection.
Predators.
Rubbish!
Our nurtured, free range, meat chickens are not chickens.
Protein on failing legs,
Where living is a necessary inconvenience.
We shall not venture down this precarious, commercial path again.

Heat of the day

In the heat of the day I fail.
My mind and it's multitude of ideas are lost.
My brain finds itself a miasma of warm lumpy custard.
Humidity and thickening air weigh me down.
Yet I cannot enjoy a refreshing siesta,
The sheets damp - cling
The afternoon sun finds a slit between the blinds,
And finds my face
No respite.
Nothing to do but to wait,
Until the coolness of night.

All Those Currants

I look at them with dismay.
Black and red,
Ready to pick.
Behind the lavender bushes,
In the 'snakey' patch,
Ripe when the Sun God sets my head on fire.

I baulk.
Perhaps I will pick them at dusk,
Or dawn.
I'll wear gumboots.

So tedious,
I work out a system.
Strip each branch.
The reds are small and fragile,
They cling in droops.
The blacks robust.
But amongst the leaves,
Are the more difficult.

Pick and plan.
Wine, Cordial or maybe,
Jam.

Pork Crackling

Many years ago,
At least quarter of a century,
I had a divine pork roast dinner.
Crackle was well,
'Crackly'.
Baked roast vegetables were crisp on the outside,
Inside almost melting.
Entirety bathed in a cider quenched marinade,
Salty and sweet.

'Bushy' from Broken Hill,
Or was it Bourke?
Who prepared this feast in the college dorm,
Swore by his cast camp oven.

Since that milestone,
Each pork leg I prepare,
Aims to replicate this culinary triumph.
But in twenty five years this ideal alludes me.

It took five years to understand that,
Though well cooked on the outside,
Flesh within may still be rooting about the pigsty.

Today I cook 'Charcoal',
Or is it 'Ash'?
Last years fattened piglets.
Harbingers of  bushfires,
that dominated the Summer they spent with us.
'Scrumpy' in 'Grolsch' bottles,
from post fire ash tarnished apples.

Poignant that today,
Is another Summer day on bushfire alert.

I compose, write and wait tentatively,
For the leg,
And spuds, newly dug,
To metamorphose into the perfect meal.
Complimented by broccoli,
I've yet to harvest,
And sparkling red currant wine......

My apprehension is palpable.
 

Age slowly creeps

Yes it was last year
I remember
I could still do all those yoga asanas
The plough
My tummy flesh did not sag like this
Salute to the sun
My back won't bend as it did
Age slowly creeps
First of January
I resolve
To not rush to greet it.