ABPA — The Australian Bush Poets Association Inc.

The Last Ride

© Helen Harvey

Winner, 2026 Silver Brumby Award, MFSR Festival, Corryong, Victoria.

The peaceful side of morning has awakened with a dew
still on its face, as streaks of light show dawn is breaking through.
A silver mist has shrouded land which slumbers through the calm,
before the sun comes streaming in to end the tranquil charm.
The moon is fading slowly just before the coming morn,
while echoes rise from cattle calls beside a track, well worn.
But while the tangled wattle boughs droop, heavy with their load,
an aching heart is yearning to be out there on the road.

A shadow slants across his face to screen the faded eyes,
with crows-feet, deepened by the years of life in western skies.
The battered hat which sits atop a shock of silver hair,
is testament to how he worked, with stains of sweat still there.
A laboured gait is hindered by a limp that breaks his stride;
the walk is unassisted, aided only by his pride.
He will not seek a helping hand, nor use a walking cane,
and views it as a weakness as he challenges the pain.

It takes some time to saddle up, while his old gelding stands
to wait, because the trust is strong in this old rider’s hands.
He grapples with the girth strap now, which seems so hard to hold,
in fingers, stiff and thickened, which have worsened with the cold.
While he bemoans his age again, the sun begins to climb
above the trees outlined in gold, but only for a time.
He struggles on the mounting block – a chiselled, weathered log,
then leaves his horse to set the pace – an easy, steady jog.

The morning shadows stretch ahead as if to lead the way,
towards the west, where once he rode and many stories lay.
Sweet promises of cooler days come softly on the breeze,
which skims across his suntanned skin, then stirs the sleeping trees.
The light glints kindly on the trunks of gnarled and twisted gum,
as all the while an old land turns towards a kinder hum.
The summer lies behind it now, with autumn on the way;
the burning glare has mellowed and conceded to this day.

His mood has lightened with the day which comes in clear and blue.
The stiffness in his fingers eased and back pain, mostly too –
both residues from how he worked so very long ago,
when only those who lived back then could comprehend or know.
The early dew is on his tongue – it tastes so pure and rare,
while blissful strains of butcher birds trail softly on the air.
A thankful land now breathes a sigh with every gentle breeze,
while his old gelding jogs along with confidence and ease.

The river tracks beside the bank – besieged with woody weeds,
and branches from untidy gums which lie near castor seeds.
They loiter in the litter, waiting for their time to thrive,
and spread across the narrow path where noxious weeds survive.
A thousand stories have been told along this weathered track.
Perhaps to ride here one more time would bring memories back.
The passing years have faded some, and many, gone for good,
but those he can recall are scarce and barely understood.

The track leads to the waterhole, where he perhaps, will rest
awhile, upon the dappled banks where mud larks come to nest.
The years come rolling back with ease, as if on paper wings;
he’ll close his eyes to wait until the she oak softly sings.
He leans against the river gum whose roots run wide and deep,
and lost in days he can recall, the old man falls asleep.
Unsure of time, he wakes, confused – not knowing where to go;
no landmarks there to lead the way or nothing he would know.

An urgent need is rising and it shows upon his face.
He does not recognize this track which feels so out of place.
With panicked grip, he tries to turn his horse the other way,
which leads off to a lonely track where very few will stray.
His horse resists, then swings around, ignoring both the reins,
then canters back the other way, across the dimming plains.
A weathered hand now strokes the mane in praise for what he’d done.
His gelding’s instinct leads them home before the setting sun.

As dusk is settling on the land he reaches their home gate –
unsaddles, then turns out his horse who trots down to his mate.
There waiting, with a worried look upon her weathered face,
the woman, who has always been his constant, saving grace.
She worries when he rides away to places he had known,
but cannot bring herself to say those days have long since flown.
For only there he knows a peace he cannot always find;
confusion creeping in each day has cluttered his frail mind.

And though he sees her through half-light, he’s not entirely sure,
so, pauses to collect his thoughts – he’d not done that before!
Then suddenly he feels afraid of what may lay ahead.
With lucid moments comes the fear of loneliness and dread.
A woman calls, then through a fog she takes his shaking hand.
The worn and calloused fingers feel her thinning wedding band.
When memories are almost gone, without consent or choice,
the one thing he will not forget – his woman’s touch or voice.


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