The Old Timer
Posted: Mon Nov 01, 2010 11:00 pm
The Old Timer
Copyright I Conner 20/01/07
Across the lonely common room I see you sitting there,
a shrunken ghost of younger days, no family to care.
I see the wrinkled skin that tears with ev’ry careless grip,
the useless hand, the twisted leg; the endless dribbling lip.
I watch you in your silent world as people come and go
and sorrow for the loss of tales that now we’ll never know.
You cannot speak to ask for help, nor tell us how you feel
but underneath the outward wreck, who knows what you conceal?
I’ve seen the well worn hat that sits upon your greying hair;
the moleskins folded in your room you never get to wear.
I’ve seen your battered riding boots that once adorned your feet;
the calloused hands that tell of work in dust, and dirt and heat.
I’d love to sit and hold your hand and talk to you awhile
and let you know that someone cares enough to make you smile.
I’d love to listen to the yarns you’ve gathered through the years;
to hear the stories that have fed your laughter and your tears.
Were you among the drovers who would travel dusty plains,
who slept beneath the canvas in the midst of winter rains;
a cattleman who did it hard, from sunrise through to dusk,
a man who never wasted words – aloof and sometimes brusque?
Perhaps you were a horseman who was known throughout the land
for skill within the saddle, and a gentle, kindly hand.
A man who raced with brumbys over mountainside and plain,
who held his pony steady with the lightest touch of rein.
I wonder if you’d tell of droughts that wither scrub and grass,
of cattle that lay dying on the tracks o’er which you pass,
of waterholes that shrink beneath the harsh relentless sun;
the dying throes of wildlife you must silence with your gun.
Or have you fought the waters of a raging, swirling flood
that left your land beneath a coat of slowly drying mud;
that took away your livelihood – your crops and all your sheep
and forced a change of life so you could try to earn your keep?
Perhaps you travelled outback trails with wagon, kids and wife,
or maybe you could tell us of a lonely swaggies life.
And have you lost a family for whom you’ll always care?
It seems I’ll always wonder as I see you sitting there.
Copyright I Conner 20/01/07
Across the lonely common room I see you sitting there,
a shrunken ghost of younger days, no family to care.
I see the wrinkled skin that tears with ev’ry careless grip,
the useless hand, the twisted leg; the endless dribbling lip.
I watch you in your silent world as people come and go
and sorrow for the loss of tales that now we’ll never know.
You cannot speak to ask for help, nor tell us how you feel
but underneath the outward wreck, who knows what you conceal?
I’ve seen the well worn hat that sits upon your greying hair;
the moleskins folded in your room you never get to wear.
I’ve seen your battered riding boots that once adorned your feet;
the calloused hands that tell of work in dust, and dirt and heat.
I’d love to sit and hold your hand and talk to you awhile
and let you know that someone cares enough to make you smile.
I’d love to listen to the yarns you’ve gathered through the years;
to hear the stories that have fed your laughter and your tears.
Were you among the drovers who would travel dusty plains,
who slept beneath the canvas in the midst of winter rains;
a cattleman who did it hard, from sunrise through to dusk,
a man who never wasted words – aloof and sometimes brusque?
Perhaps you were a horseman who was known throughout the land
for skill within the saddle, and a gentle, kindly hand.
A man who raced with brumbys over mountainside and plain,
who held his pony steady with the lightest touch of rein.
I wonder if you’d tell of droughts that wither scrub and grass,
of cattle that lay dying on the tracks o’er which you pass,
of waterholes that shrink beneath the harsh relentless sun;
the dying throes of wildlife you must silence with your gun.
Or have you fought the waters of a raging, swirling flood
that left your land beneath a coat of slowly drying mud;
that took away your livelihood – your crops and all your sheep
and forced a change of life so you could try to earn your keep?
Perhaps you travelled outback trails with wagon, kids and wife,
or maybe you could tell us of a lonely swaggies life.
And have you lost a family for whom you’ll always care?
It seems I’ll always wonder as I see you sitting there.