The Grazier's House

The grazier's grand home was at the wrong end of the bush track.
His children had moved on to more lucrative pursuits.
The wool stockpile fell on the price guarantee,
And Australia fell off the sheep's back.

The grazier was old, and needed a beach bungalow.
Or at least his wife did.
Or perhaps she just wanted the shops,
And access to hairdressers, that coastal resort towns afford.
It was her turn.

The grazier shuffles behind his wife on auto-pilot,
The walking dead in shining RM Williams.
The grazier's property is under pine.
Generations of blood and tears lie buried beneath,
The acidifying, needle strewn soil.
And there too lies the grazier's heart.
Best he does not see what his grand home has become.