My Fergie

He's a classic,
Massey Ferguson 35 X,
He is his original red,
But that doesn't make him racy.
He putts along at a walking pace,
As I slash the tussocks.
I am in low range,
Because the tussocks and cutty-grass are thick.
He can still give me a start when he picks up speed downhills.
Or if one of his big wheels,
Suddenly discovers a wombat hole.
Despite his loud hoarse monotone.
I find riding him,
In slowly diminishing circles,
Almost meditative.
Getting the PTO into gear is a feat of agility.
I use the wrong foot to double clutch,
So the other is free,
To whack the lever, grinding, into position.
Of beings mechanically inanimate,
I have a precarious relationship.
Which means I am a poor driver.
I find the throttle, slasher raising, gear changing and braking,
Sometimes beyond my motor planning.
But as I disengage the PTO,
Lower the slasher and pull on the brake.
I feel a real sense of achievement.
That we have survived another excursion together.

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!