A Step Too Far
© Terry Piggott
Winner, Traditional Verse, 2026 Sutherland Shire Literary Awards, Sutherland NSW.
As his old camp starts to crumble ghostly voices seem to mumble,
in the rattle and the moans of tortured metal in the breeze.
As it stands there sad and battered, there are parts of it now scattered
all around the hillside, leaving little left there now to please.
And it’s hard to hide the sadness for what seemed to me like madness,
when the old chap was coerced to leave and go and live in town.
Good intentions – but shortsighted – and perhaps the plan was blighted,
for he only lived a few months – and he never settled down.
After all those years of knowing just exactly where life’s going,
to be suddenly uprooted from the lifestyle he knew well.
Surely was at best misguided when those plans had been decided
and I doubt old Jim had much input, although it’s hard to tell.
With the sun now slowly setting once again I’m left regretting,
at the way he’d been enticed to up and leave his old bush home.
I still see him yarning joking sitting by his campfire smoking,
overlooking there the vastness that he daily used to roam.
Though his camp was old and battered, it was home and that’s what mattered,
life out bush had suited him, for there, you really can be free.
And with early shadows falling, I now find myself recalling,
sitting with him round his campfire yarning with a mug of tea.
So, forget the old camp’s roughness, it was planned and built for toughness,
to withstand the arid harshness that is always found out there.
And despite Jim’s mild appearance he had grit and perseverance
and could face up to the worst of it found there or anywhere.
And the heat was unrelenting leaving most of us lamenting,
yet for sixty years he lived there uncomplaining till the end.
Though the weather’s irritating, Jim would always be there waiting,
with a near cold beer or two, to welcome any passing friend.
But his first love was prospecting, and he’d walk for miles collecting,
quartz like specimens, he hoped would lead him to a worthwhile find.
I can see him out there strolling over country rough and rolling,
picking up each thing of promise leaving blokes like me behind.
I remember our first meeting and his friendly smile and greeting,
out there near the Coronation on a warm day years ago.
There were old mines he’d been checking, in between a bit of specking,
for rich specimens were sometimes found below the big quartz blow.
Soon he had a campfire going then the stories started flowing,
telling yarns of prospecting and life out bush there long ago.
And from that day on I reckon lasting friendship seemed to beckon
and I’d call into his camp when passing, just to say hello.
And the kettle would be boiling, while old Jim was out there toiling,
crushing specimens collected way out where the eagles fly.
So, the Dolly would be ringing and the kettle also singing,
as I called in for a cuppa and a chat while passing by.
But those days are gone forever out there in the Never, Never,
where those old blokes helped to weave the stirring stories of our past.
And the dreams that they were chasing we are slowly now erasing,
for the old time Aussie’s all but gone – with blokes like Jim the last.
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