Calling Time
© Terry Piggott
Winner, Bush Poetry, 2026 Laura Literary Awards, Laura SA.
The signs are there he can’t deny – it’s time to look truth in the eye
and now accept he’s reached the end, it’s time to say goodbye.
He knows he’s running out of puff – forget about that sterner stuff,
although the spirit’s willing – that no longer is enough.
It hasn’t happened overnight, the finish line’s long been in sight,
but he’s the sort of bloke who won’t give up without a fight.
Yet even he must now admit it’s more than simply being fit,
he’s worn out now, and that’s the truth, so just face up to it.
His age of course has played a part, it’s forty years now since the start,
of life outback in search of gold in places miles apart.
And what a journey it has been, with mates he’s known and things he’s seen,
from Kal to old Halls Creek and all those places in between.
And there is beauty there as well with countless stories he could tell,
of desert like oasis where he’d camp and rest a spell.
Surrounded by the haunting view of breakaways where eagles flew
and wake up in the mornings under skies of endless blue.
Then listen to the silence found in what for some is sacred ground
and even he at times can sense an aura all around.
And in his mind, he sees once more, the way this land had been before,
but there are changes happening you simply can’t ignore.
And blokes he knew were also gone, some passed away, the rest moved on,
old friends he’d known for years and always could depend upon.
Their rough old shacks are still out there though sadly now in disrepair,
a poignant last reminder of the times they used to share.
They’d lived a lifestyle free from stress and searched for gold with some success,
though seldom talked of what they’d found, it’s up to you to guess.
And he like them searched far and wide out where the golden nuggets hide
and scattered over forty years were countless spots he’d tried.
He’d seen it all, or most of it, the scattered shafts, each mining pit,
although the magic of those days has waned, he must admit.
The isolation left you free to roam through all that you could see,
but things have changed there now, it’s not the way it used to be.
From Nullagine to Marble Bar, the Western Shaw and Sharks not far
and countless other spots on dusty tracks well off the tar.
Then south down to the Famous Blue and Hoot-a-Nooie’s out there too,
with Eucalypts and Pikes Hollow just to name a few.
A baker’s oven rusted brown is all that’s left of Linden town,
but gold he missed out on the lake, will take some living down.
Then down the track to Cripple Creek – he’ll not forget the magic week,
he chanced upon the kind of find, that all prospectors seek.
Of course, there’s times when luck was out but never had the slightest doubt,
that if you kept on looking things would quickly turn about.
Or just move on to somewhere new the fields were vast and people few
and soon your luck would change again – it always did, he knew!
The weather too would play its part, to live out there you must be smart,
a summer camp with lots of shade a must before you start.
And high ground was important too when odd cyclones were passing through,
with flooding rains and fierce destructive winds that often blew.
Now looking back, he can’t complain, an ache or two, a little pain,
still wishing he could turn back time and do it all again.
But knows he’s now well past his prime, there’s no more hills he needs to climb,
yet still it’s hard to leave, but in his heart, he knows it’s time.
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