Homework 18th Nov - The Stockman's Loss
Posted: Sun Nov 17, 2019 4:15 pm
The Stockman’s Loss
The wind was attacking the branches of charred jacaranda trees
that lined twisted backyard fences, smashed and brought to their knees.
Dry leaves rose and whirled in the dust storm, decay and ruin loomed,
and the curlews set to crying—
crying—crying—
the curlews set to crying, portent of everything doomed.
Akubra in shreds on his forehead, a sweat soaked shirt at his neck,
the stockman tried to whistle to keep his emotions in check,
consumed the remains of his damper, and weak billy tea as he cried
over hard times causing destruction—
his guaranteed future destruction—
despairing of sheer devastation, stunned at all that had died.
“No more; no more!” Had God heard him? He howled at the heedless night;
“No more; no more!” to the distance, he cursed the malevolent blight.
Fingers caressed a trigger, though loath to abandon his dreams,
yet the stockman was surrounded—
alone and completely surrounded
by carnage and wreckage unbounded, and plagued by the curlews’ screams.
And hope came not in the dawning, nor in the midday sun,
which burned with a heartless fury that nobody could outrun;
whilst into another sunset, outlining purple trees,
the heat bled, ever scorching—
relentless, ceaseless scorching—
intense, oppressive torment, no breath of cooling breeze.
He scanned his homestead’s ashes, he mourned the drought’s cruel trick,
the wasted years of his labour wrought long with shovel and pick.
He’d fought but knew he was beaten, and lifting desolate eyes
conceded defeat—yet defiant—
weary, but calm and defiant—
sang out in his angry defiance, Matilda, aloud to the skies.
Out in the darkening bushland, the shortest of silences fell
as briefly some startled creatures paid heed to the depth of his hell.
His voice became stronger with passion, till finally hopelessness passed—
then the curlews resumed their grim warning—
their fatal and confident warning—
and he fell to the ground spent and shattered, to tragically breathe his last.
And still of a summer’s night, they say, when the jacaranda trees
are purple and verdant in moonlight, their flowers tossed in the breeze,
when renewal has come to the landscape, and seasons have balanced the pain,
the stockman is witnessed returning
to celebrate lushness returning—
the stockman rides onto his station, applauding the coming of rain.
© Catherine Lee, 2019
The wind was attacking the branches of charred jacaranda trees
that lined twisted backyard fences, smashed and brought to their knees.
Dry leaves rose and whirled in the dust storm, decay and ruin loomed,
and the curlews set to crying—
crying—crying—
the curlews set to crying, portent of everything doomed.
Akubra in shreds on his forehead, a sweat soaked shirt at his neck,
the stockman tried to whistle to keep his emotions in check,
consumed the remains of his damper, and weak billy tea as he cried
over hard times causing destruction—
his guaranteed future destruction—
despairing of sheer devastation, stunned at all that had died.
“No more; no more!” Had God heard him? He howled at the heedless night;
“No more; no more!” to the distance, he cursed the malevolent blight.
Fingers caressed a trigger, though loath to abandon his dreams,
yet the stockman was surrounded—
alone and completely surrounded
by carnage and wreckage unbounded, and plagued by the curlews’ screams.
And hope came not in the dawning, nor in the midday sun,
which burned with a heartless fury that nobody could outrun;
whilst into another sunset, outlining purple trees,
the heat bled, ever scorching—
relentless, ceaseless scorching—
intense, oppressive torment, no breath of cooling breeze.
He scanned his homestead’s ashes, he mourned the drought’s cruel trick,
the wasted years of his labour wrought long with shovel and pick.
He’d fought but knew he was beaten, and lifting desolate eyes
conceded defeat—yet defiant—
weary, but calm and defiant—
sang out in his angry defiance, Matilda, aloud to the skies.
Out in the darkening bushland, the shortest of silences fell
as briefly some startled creatures paid heed to the depth of his hell.
His voice became stronger with passion, till finally hopelessness passed—
then the curlews resumed their grim warning—
their fatal and confident warning—
and he fell to the ground spent and shattered, to tragically breathe his last.
And still of a summer’s night, they say, when the jacaranda trees
are purple and verdant in moonlight, their flowers tossed in the breeze,
when renewal has come to the landscape, and seasons have balanced the pain,
the stockman is witnessed returning
to celebrate lushness returning—
the stockman rides onto his station, applauding the coming of rain.
© Catherine Lee, 2019
That is a ripper of a poem Catherine. I could see that picking up a few prizes along the track. And the ending just ties it up neatly as well as being very topical. Nicely crafted my friend .
