The Long Road Home

[Maureen K Clifford]

Haven't worried at this point about the correctness of this as far as syllable count etc as I rather like it as it is but will come back to it later no doubt and see things that glare out of me.

Feel free to point them out if they hit you in the eye please.

The Long Road Home



He was just a humble swaggie type - a bloke who walked the roads,
with his dog an old brown kelpie who he pushed in one of those
contraptions meant for babies – an old pram, battered and worn
with his swag strapped tight upon it ‘neath the vinyl hood all torn.

He said his dog was old now. He had got him as a pup
and he’d walked the roads beside him from Cooktown to Manjimup.
He got a little footsore; he was stiff and now walked slower
so he pushed him in the old black pram – though worn ‘twas still a goer.

It came in handy too he said for carrying his swag
which was heavy on an old blokes back, oft’ causing him to lag
‘longside the road and tracks they walked – so the old pram had its use,
he’d found it by a roadside bin – discarded as refuse .

He was putting on a brew he said and offered me a cup
which I accepted, and we sat – watching the sun come up.
I asked him how he liked his lonely lifestyle on the roads
and he answered he was city bred – but had enough of those.

He’d seen his share of troubles, and he’d had enough of wars
with the bloodshed and the killing – at the end, what was it for?
He’d done his turn in shearing sheds, and rode the cockys acres.
He’d been a drover, tailed the mobs, tried being a horse breaker.

He said that he’d been married once, but things had turned out bad.
He’d two kids somewhere, but now the pram held everything he had.
His dog was his companion, a true and loyal mate
and his lonely days walking the roads gave time to contemplate.

Would he change a thing? He thought not, for he led the life he loved.
Here no demons crept into his dreams. He had bright stars above
plus a moon to light him should he choose a little night time wander,
and the Government paid his pension - which out here was hard to squander.

‘I walk the roads alone Mate – it’s a choice that I have made
for society and I don’t fit – let’s call a spade a spade.
I’ve no use for regulations, and no use for white man’s law.
I am living here on country – I am rich....you think me poor.

I owe nothing to no one, I am always my own man.
I’ll turn my hand to anything – I work because I can,
but when I’ve had enough of folk, well I’ve nothing to lose.
I pack up the dog and swag and head out anywhere I choose.

I can camp beside a running creek or on a hilltop high
and God willing most nights I sleep underneath a starlit sky.
I see sunsets red and mornings creeping in soft, tinged with pink,
that gives me all the lift I want – don’t need drugs or hard drink.

I’ve got tea and time and tucker – and no one to call the shots
save myself – sometimes the weather, though complaining I am not;
though the dog and me we both feel winter chills now in our bones,
but that’s a small price Mate to pay for the freedom to roam.

I reckon soon our time will come – and that’s the way it goes.
We’re put on earth for a short while – then we curl up our toes.
If we’re good we go to Heaven, if we’re bad we go to Hell.
I don’t care much which way I go, if Matey can come as well.

I’ve had him since a pup you know, a small bundle of fur
dumped out on the road somewhere just north of Bellenden Ker.
I was up near Eubenangee swamp visiting with family
on the Cassowary coast – a kind of a holiday you see.

And we’ve been together now, let’s see – I reckon thirteen years.
He’s shared everything and Mate he’s sometimes even licked the tears
from off my face on rare occasions – when I get hit with the blues
and old memories come creeping in – they aint the ones I choose’.

His voice faltered and stopped and he watched the rising smoke.
Worn brown hands cradled his tin mug - he was a simple bloke
who seemed contented with his life, which some folks would find strange
but I doubt that he would willingly its rough freedom exchange.

And so I said a sad farewell and gave Matey a pat.
I thanked him for the brew we’d shared and just left it at that.
I didn’t offer him a lift, for he’d no destination
and he would not have taken up my open invitation.

I said I’d keep an eye out for him next time I was down
and if our paths crossed we could share a beer perhaps in town.
He nodded wisely, said ‘Yea Mate – a cold beer would be nice
but I doubt our paths will cross again – so your thanks will suffice’.

And as I drove away, reflected in the rear view mirror
was the bloke who’d been a drover, a horse breaker and a shearer
and a warrior in Vietnam – a rough bloke, softly spoken -
who fought his battles his own way – a bit bent but unbroken.

Maureen Clifford © 03/11

[Heather]

Maureen that is a lovely, lovely story and I really enjoyed it - loved the last line. The metre is a bit bumpy in places but I reckon with a bit of polish it's a winner!

Heather

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thanks Heather - its a work in progress.