Tonto

No friend of the Lone Ranger,

He may be as proud, but not so statuesque,

His forehead a mass of soft brown curls,

Tonto the Dexter bull is in the house yard.

No amount of coralling can get him back in his own paddock.

He snorts and paws the ground.

Despite his diminutive stature,

He is a block of muscle,

And not to be messed with.

I cannot speculate what is going on in his deep skull,

As he attacks a pile of gravel.

So we leave him to it,

Put Lucerne in an obvious place in his paddock,

And leave the gate open.

After a short excursion around the garden,

He leaves his calling card next to the Hill's Hoist,

(Yes ours is that old),

He casually saunters back into his paddock, 

To slowly munch on hay.

The Simple Things

A sunny Winters day.

A gently ticklingly cool breeze.

A warm wooly jumper.

Soft dry ground.

A campfire.

Fresh mountain water.

Some happy pork sausages.

Bread, butter and tomato sauce.

Ham, cheese and baked beans,

And a jaffle iron.

Cast iron pan containing roasting chestnuts.

Kids, bikes, dogs and a treehouse.

All of these 'simple things',

Make a memorable day.

Zen and theTractor

It is not that you drive the tractor.
It is that you fully experience each moment of driving the tractor.
The tension in your thigh as you push down and double clutch.
The force of the key against your fingers held before ignition,
Mentally count to twenty to warm the glow plug.
A cough and you release your hand,
Ignition realised.
The unity of acceleration and release.
The posture that allows you to sit fully in the seat and maintain concentration.
Listen to the engines song as it labours up each hill.
Enter the exact moment when you decelerate and gently apply the brakes.
Notice the lay of the land.
Look for every obstacle, hole, tree-stump.
And memorise the exact point where that baby hare scrabbled slowly away through the grass.
Drink when you are thirsty.
Gauge when you think that more fuel might be needed.
Navigate the land so that needless traversing is minimised.
Feel the wind in your hair and the warmth of the sun.
Smell the fresh cut grass.
And Peppermint Eucalyptus as you slash a misplaced shrub.
realise that there is no where else in this moment you should be,
But on this little red Fergie tractor, slashing.

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.