A Changing of The Guard
Posted: Wed Aug 21, 2019 8:41 pm
This poem is about a true happening that occurred when the mining companies moved in and started buying many of the stations. Before this they had been owned by the same old families for generations.
They put in managers who were more often townies and didn’t have a clue about the country - or a feeling for it either.
The poem is based on something that happened to me and others.
I loved the lifestyle of the old ways, before these changes took place.
An earlier version was on the old forum.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
It seems I am a stranger too, throughout this land I thought I knew,
I’m banished from this place I love; told by the Cocky to move on.
With heavy heart I’ve started back along the dusty Linden track,
still shocked from what has just occurred – an outcast now, my freedom gone.
The chap had been so rude as well, quite brusque and arrogant as hell,
he’d waved his arms and cursed a lot and ordered me to leave that day.
I could have caused a bit of strife, but much prefer the peaceful life,
despite my rights to be out here I now no longer wished to stay.
I’ll miss my camp beneath the trees that gently swayed to cooling breeze
and glistened in the morning sun then offered shade on warmer days.
My hideaway for twenty years; a cool refuge as summer nears,
a magic place of solitude that’s hidden in the breakaways.
For years this was my second home, a welcomed guest and free to roam
out through this wild and pristine place, of beauty hard to now explain.
I’d wander through eroding hills and search for gold with all its thrills,
then rest awhile and look around to marvel at this land again.
In days gone by I’d sip a brew while at the station passing through,
I’d bring along the latest news and drop in bread and papers too.
But friendliness of bygone days is fading fast in many ways,
for strangers run the stations now and lack the warmth that I once knew.
Disheartened still I move along, resigned by now, but know it’s wrong.
I note each landmark as I pass and wonder if I will return.
There’s Tin Dog flats my winter camp, a handy spot when things got damp,
the gold was always small out here, but weather was my main concern.
For years I’d camped near Red Dog Hill and faced the brunt of winters chill,
yet still I loved those days spent here down by that old abandoned shack.
But things have changed a lot of late; this station bloke is not my mate
and so, I head on slowly out along this old familiar track.
A baker’s oven rusted brown is all that’s left of Linden town,
not even ghosts would linger here; there’s not a building left to haunt.
Some broken glass reflects the sun around this place where myths were spun,
while ancient piles of old tin cans completes a scene that’s bleak and gaunt.
The Camelbacks come into view cloaked in a shroud of misty blue,
mysterious and challenging they seem to beckon me once more.
Their craggy slopes are creased and bare except for rocks that balance there,
as though defying gravity while clinging to that barren tor.
I pause awhile at Murphy’s well and think of stories it could tell,
of men from many walks of life who’d stopped to wash the grime away.
The shearers and the mining types that rested here and smoked their pipes,
while swapping yarns and bits of news as they would pass the time of day.
Then down the road through weathered hills past flashing blades of creaking mills,
a sadness now descends on me, is this to be my last time here?
For forty years I’ve come this way, will I be back, it’s hard to say,
who knows what lies ahead of us, sometimes these problems disappear?
******
©T.E. Piggott
They put in managers who were more often townies and didn’t have a clue about the country - or a feeling for it either.
The poem is based on something that happened to me and others.
I loved the lifestyle of the old ways, before these changes took place.
An earlier version was on the old forum.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
It seems I am a stranger too, throughout this land I thought I knew,
I’m banished from this place I love; told by the Cocky to move on.
With heavy heart I’ve started back along the dusty Linden track,
still shocked from what has just occurred – an outcast now, my freedom gone.
The chap had been so rude as well, quite brusque and arrogant as hell,
he’d waved his arms and cursed a lot and ordered me to leave that day.
I could have caused a bit of strife, but much prefer the peaceful life,
despite my rights to be out here I now no longer wished to stay.
I’ll miss my camp beneath the trees that gently swayed to cooling breeze
and glistened in the morning sun then offered shade on warmer days.
My hideaway for twenty years; a cool refuge as summer nears,
a magic place of solitude that’s hidden in the breakaways.
For years this was my second home, a welcomed guest and free to roam
out through this wild and pristine place, of beauty hard to now explain.
I’d wander through eroding hills and search for gold with all its thrills,
then rest awhile and look around to marvel at this land again.
In days gone by I’d sip a brew while at the station passing through,
I’d bring along the latest news and drop in bread and papers too.
But friendliness of bygone days is fading fast in many ways,
for strangers run the stations now and lack the warmth that I once knew.
Disheartened still I move along, resigned by now, but know it’s wrong.
I note each landmark as I pass and wonder if I will return.
There’s Tin Dog flats my winter camp, a handy spot when things got damp,
the gold was always small out here, but weather was my main concern.
For years I’d camped near Red Dog Hill and faced the brunt of winters chill,
yet still I loved those days spent here down by that old abandoned shack.
But things have changed a lot of late; this station bloke is not my mate
and so, I head on slowly out along this old familiar track.
A baker’s oven rusted brown is all that’s left of Linden town,
not even ghosts would linger here; there’s not a building left to haunt.
Some broken glass reflects the sun around this place where myths were spun,
while ancient piles of old tin cans completes a scene that’s bleak and gaunt.
The Camelbacks come into view cloaked in a shroud of misty blue,
mysterious and challenging they seem to beckon me once more.
Their craggy slopes are creased and bare except for rocks that balance there,
as though defying gravity while clinging to that barren tor.
I pause awhile at Murphy’s well and think of stories it could tell,
of men from many walks of life who’d stopped to wash the grime away.
The shearers and the mining types that rested here and smoked their pipes,
while swapping yarns and bits of news as they would pass the time of day.
Then down the road through weathered hills past flashing blades of creaking mills,
a sadness now descends on me, is this to be my last time here?
For forty years I’ve come this way, will I be back, it’s hard to say,
who knows what lies ahead of us, sometimes these problems disappear?
******
©T.E. Piggott