Motley

Our crew is motley.
We are a range of ages and BMIs,
A farmer, a teacher, a barmaid, a sawmiller.
Yet our enthusiasm is undaunted,
Despite our reservations about abseiling
We waddle precariously close to the edge,
And with words of encouragement,
" Stick yer thumb up your bum."
"Keep your legs straight."
"Come on now this rope has a breaking strain of 3000kg."
To fill in the long periods of trepidatious stalling.
By the  person, 'on rope.'
Finally a fat bottom is over the edge
They pass the point of no return.
A startled scream as the rope catches the edge.
And they're down.
With only a few red' words.

Blowies

The light is attracting them.
They buzz and splutter in a chorus,
About my head.
They bounce of the darkened ceiling.
Morris left the door open all afternoon.
They were attracted by the kitchen smells,
Of fresh bread baking,
And Bowen's scones.
I had to rescue the cream before it was blown.
I should not complain too much.
They are a harbinger of the warm pleasant days to come.
They are blowies.

Poddy Mark II

She is a little cross-bred ewe.
The farmer has grown soft in his maturing age.
" He just can't knock them on the head anymore."
So we have her,
To feed with a bottle.
Bleeding hearts do not understand the cost,
Of a poddy lamb to the economy of a farm.
We are not farmers,
We can be indulgent.
So tonight we will bring her inside,
To be close to the fire,
To give her a better chance.
Hopefully we will find her bleating-hungry in the morning.
Not succumbed to the stress of motherlessness.
Like Poddy Mark I.
Then we shall give her a name.

Of This Town

He was of this town,
From the moment his eyes first perceived light.
Till they closed, as his light went out.
As he sat in the hospital in the next town,
His thoughts were always of his return.
The Catholic Church on the hill,
The house of his childhood,
The garage,
The town's water supply tank.
The pump house,
The golf club,
And his marital home,
These were the boundaries,
Of his life.
Within this town,
He grew, was educated, loved and was loved.
Here he found and served his community.
Here he was often happy.
Perhaps in the grand scheme of things,
Many may not find it worth celebrating,
Yet it was still a remarkable life.

Third

They do go in threes,
The matriarch, the retired farmer and now the mechanic.
I was secretly hoping that he wouldn't make the Trifecta.
But he went at last.

When I was twenty two,
Young, eager,
And naïve.
I felt his gruff exterior abrade.
But I did not know his humour then.

I have been travelling the vital years of my life,
Marriage, children, maturity.
And he has been a constant.
Smiling knowingly,
Each time my car met with an unexpected mishap.
"You do realise that these things need oil."

A Catholic, dad seven times,
He fuelled my car and enjoyed my kids,
Tapping at the glass, smiling or engaging them in chat.

He told me once that he had raised those garage doors,
Every working day of his life since he was fourteen.
His son, third generation has recently updated them.
No need to put on the gloves and pull hard on the chain,
The new blue doors roll-up easily.

In hindsight,
It seems an unfortunate omen.




 

Fancy Dancer

"So what's up with him?"
Gossip,
But with genuine concern.
"The fancy dancer"
The main street of this small country town,
Isn't big enough for more news like this.
"Geez, not him too"
Cos she's got the asbestos one,
And this one's dad has the melanoma.
" It's not looking good."
Topic of conversation,
Too regular for comfort.
Stark this reality,
When everyone knows everyone's business.
So now our town's business?
Daffodil Day,
The Biggest Morning Tea,
And the town's inaugural,
Relay For Life.

The Wombat

Today we sent a wombat to heaven.
He stumbled blindly in the harsh daylight.
His nocturnal clock out of whack.
This a clear sign.
The scourge?
Mange from a now fox-less burrow.

I have been guilty of verbally abusing wombats.
They make night drives a heart stopping event.
Their choice of home often inconvenient,
And their aerial ablutions on farm equipment irritating.
( How can such a stubby legged animal defecate at such heights?)

Suburbites have no idea of the challenges of wombats.
Yet when you are surprised by one out grazing at night.
It's jaunty jog, digging and snuffling about, are endearing.
Supine baby wombats with their soft leathery pads and chubby bellies melt your heart.

Today was this wombat's last day.
He was huge and powerful,
But so fragile.
Bothered by our yapping foxie,
He barely moved away.
His thick winter coat encrusted and scabby.
We would not let him suffer the indignity of a slow death.
Damn mangy foxes.

Blue versus Grey

It was two things,
The blueness,
Between billowing clouds,
That slowly sailed across the sky,
And the warmth of the sunshine,
That kissed the bare skin of my face and hands.
It was these,
That lifted every aspect of my being.

The soft dry ground on which I lay.
And the caressing breeze,
That played like a lover with my unfastened  hair.
Added to the effect.
I could smell the familiarity of frost-seared grass,
And hear the country sounds,
Of those on hoof, paw and wing.
And I felt calm.

But all too soon,
Despite the patches of blue,
The sun's warming rays were taken prisoner.
By a cold grey cloud.
I was suddenly frozen to the core.
My idyll broken,
I went inside,
To the warmth of the fire.

The Poddy

Plaintive bleats fall on deaf ears.
Mother ewe has decided,
The strongest of the twin lambs will survive.
We check the paddock with our torches.
We hear the slow movement of hooves.
Some alarmed bleating,
As small families are disturbed.
We catch four shining jewels in the torch light,
Eye shine of mother and babe.
But a small one is alone.
It cries piteously.
On unsteady legs it moves toward us.
A decision.
If it is there on our return,
From our circuit,
Still alone,
We will take her inside.
After our tour we see her,
Pathetic cries tug at our heartstrings.
We have a poddy.

They go in Threes

People become worried,
The elderly and ill.
And I'm sure their families too.
They listen for the whine of the ambulance.
They note too, the coldest, darkest nights.
Keep eyes open,
For the regularity of people's public habits.
Check up on people living alone.
In this town it is noted when,
Two funeral notices are placed in succession,
On the front door of the General Store.
Because this town has a macabre habit....

Of losing its residents in threes.

The ebb and flow.

The welcome rain makes the paddock slippery slush.
Gumboots dry inside but awkward to walk in.
Bedraggled baby kids chase their mothers bleating.
Mums' eyes on the prize of lucerne hay.

But Tonto the bull is the winner.
He ambles through the gate,
Turning abruptly to butt the greedy goats.
I slam the gate shut.
They push and climb and nip at the hay I carry.
Secure the gate with much effort.

I must get him into the yard.
He has a boarding pass for departure.
Now he slowly chews his cud,
In no hurry.
I put more hay along his path.
Finally he moves.
Then bolts straight at me.
In fear I toss my load.
He stops.
Trembling I pick up my dropped bundle,
And move to close the gate on him.
"The little bastard."

Now to move the others.
The sheep follow me into a new paddock,
Sean is a greedy leader.
Wary Harriet misses out on food.
She remains shut out and is lost without her herd,
So loiters nearby.
Haley, and Comet her calf will follow me to the moon for some hay.
Animals secure and gates open and shut.

Tonto's carriage awaits.
He saunters down the hill casually following a trail of hay.
Then he spies a whole biscuit,
He's off.
I feel nauseous stress pour over me.
His owner unperturbed Croc Dundee,
Stands her ground,
"Stop,"
He stops.
Turns and runs into the race and onto the trailer.
All done.
I breathe again.
Now to splash and splodge precariously,
And return the displaced.

Wombats

"Boonk, Boonk!"
Is the sound of a wombat,
Going under my car.
In the clear frosty evenings,
You must be especially on guard.
Last night the moon was full.

First it was a fleet footed fox,
That crossed my path;
Fleet footed enough.
I slow to a crawl knowing,
The plantation will come up on my left.

And on cue the king of the macropods bounds out.
The kangaroo slips on the icy surface,
Rises, hops into the streaming light of my headlights,
It comes again, and slips again.
But I have seen it in plenty of time.
I stop, it clears the fence,
And lives to see another frosty night.

Resuming my slow journey,
I curse the carnage of the 'plantation zone.'
I pass mouldering carcass after carcass.
Nearing home I am calmer,
But.....
I see it, yet there is no avoiding the collision.

"Boonk, Boonk!"

Will it snow?

This week it has been several degrees below.
Frosts have come with days of glorious blue.
Give the children cheeks of a rosy hue,
But tell me, will it snow?

The grass is brown and has ceased to grow.
The buck still smells and the goats are still in heat.
The bull bellows, the cow he'd like to meet.
But tell me, will it snow?

And though he too, is now below,
They say "It always snowed on Arty's Birthday"
But that was in April and now its May.
So I'm asking them, will it snow?

It's the kids who really want to know
Snow means no bus and no school for the day
Snow balls and men and cold wet outdoor play.
They are wishing, for it to snow.

The weatherman seems to be one who knows
Forecasted snow to below five hundred metres.
We've got in extra wood to fill our heater.
So we're ready, if it snows.

Invigoration

What is it about the combination of wind, rain and outdoor activity,
That causes such invigoration of the soul?
I was very tired,
Up far too late last night.
Yet,
Being out in the paddock,
Moving soggy goats and their shelter.
Pulling down electric fences,
And tramping through the paddocks,
Just made me feel alive.
My nose was runny and wet cool hairs streaked across my face.
My clunking gumboots even had a leak and a stone.
Yet,
I had a smile in my heart.

Sick in the country

Sick in the country means:
I was really lucky that,
Yes they could fit me in,
To see the doctor,
TODAY.
Driving two hundred and ten kilometres,
Down a winding, mountain road.
From one thousand metres to sea level,
On sixty ks an hour.
I was sick before I left home.
But much sicker by the time I got back.
Still very pleased,
To see the doctor,
TODAY!

Good Friday at Delegate

Good Friday.
Are we eating fish?
Going to church?
Reflecting on Christ's sacrifice?
No we are down at the river,
With the rest of the townsfolk of Delegate.
Baptising?
No we are gambling on the outcome of a race.
One hundred and nine starters.
There is pizza,
Baked in the town's cob-oven.
And an Easter egg hunt,
And boat races for the kids.
The playground is a riot of squeals.
The men beer in hand discuss,
The weather and stock prices.
The women, with one eye on their children discuss,
The nocturnal habits of newborns.
And at two o'clock  it's on.
The crowd moves slowly along the bank,
The tension builds as the field spreads out.
Their are no scratchings.
Competitors that become snagged are pushed back into the flowing stream.
Till at  last they cross the finish.
Great nets scoop up the multi- coloured plastic throng,
So that they may be available to race again next year.
And so ends the Delegate Duck Races for another year.

Small Town Show

You HAVE to go to the show....
No arguments!
To justify the gargantuan effort,
Perpetually put in,
By always the same volunteers.
See the artistic projects,
Collected over the whole year,
By class teachers at the local school.
The Produce, cooking, wool, photography and artistic items.
Enjoy traditional lunch prepared by the Hospital Auxiliary. 
Small daughters on small ponies,
To be led around the show ring,
Marvel at The Great Zamboni,
Comedy Magician.
Visit stands representing all the emergency agencies.
The jumping castles, lolly and weaponry-filled showbags.
Packs of lolly-hyped small boys,
With plastic submachine guns,
Terrorising their sisters.
Over-coiffed and make-upped tweens,
Vying for Miss Showgirl.
(Who don't risk entering, for fear of losing face.)
Smart dressed farmers in moleskins, plaid shirts and hats,
Check out the various species of 'stock',
And the sheep dog trials. 
And after a long and fatiguing day,
You pack up your tired, ratty kids,
Who clasp their ribbons, sashes, rosettes and submachine gun.
Then drive your familial circus;
Car with horse float,
Home.
You can let the feeling of relief wash gently over you,
Because it is over for another year.

The Country Talent Quest

It's that time of year again
Yeah haw!
The annual Country Music Talent Quest time.
So it's out with the sheet music,
Google chords and lyrics,
And check out all the versions,
Of the best country has to offer on You Tube.
Finding the right key for junior cowgirls and boys.
Practising and getting decked in just the right kit.
Then there's the dry run on club night.
Haggling over what sections to enter.
Sleepovers for other young hopefuls,
Who tag along with your family singers.
The comedy skits and the last minute dummy spits.
These culminate in a long long day at the local RSL.
Bring along a blanket, some books and colouring in,
To keep all ages occupied.
The smell of the makeup and hairspray.
The frocks, boots and bulging love handles.
The singers and the ear splitters.
The blood and the tears.
Wholesome entertainment for the whole family.

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

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.