NOT BLACK ENOUGH FOR MIDNIGHT
Posted: Fri May 30, 2025 1:58 pm
NOT BLACK ENOUGH FOR MIDNIGHT .. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet
He was known as eleven fifty nine he said
which we thought was just a trifle strange
but we didn’t ask him how that tag came about,
we accepted that just as his name.
Once we got to know him a little bit better,
we thought that we’d ask him to tell.
How he grinned as he spoke – he’s a pretty nice bloke
and you quickly fell under his spell.
Well as he told the yarn of his long ago days
when he was still a slip of a lad,
he told how he worked on big stations outback,
droving cattle alongside his Dad.
He said that the blokes he worked with were all cards
and he got on with them. They were right,
they reckoned although a blackfella he was –
he wasn’t black enough for midnight.
So that’s how he came by the strange name he had –
eleven fifty nine was well known.
I doubt if he weighed in at one hundred pounds
and was quite a bit shy of eight stone.
He was wiry and slim but as strong as an ox
with a grin that would light up the dark;
just as well he reckoned, for he had heard tell,
that the boss thought him quite a bright spark.
He could ride any horse as a matter of course
though the equine concerned wasn’t broke.
But they followed his lead and each brumby paid heed,
must have been in the way that he spoke.
Give him twenty minutes and you’d see him riding
that brumby bred mare from the scrub
with never a pig root or indignant squeal.
They’d be standing docile for a rub.
He could shear with the best – we put him to the test,
this bloke barely broke out in a sweat.
And the big dollars fell as onlookers will tell,
there were plenty there willing to bet.
He worked neck and neck with the shearer from Gulgong
and their tallies kept going higher
then the gun shearer broke on his second last stroke –
as to why none were game to enquire.
There was nothing that fazed him he’d take on the lot,
be it droving or crutching or fencing
and always along with a joke and a smile
there’d be wisdom that he’d be dispensing.
He’d lived off the land and he knew the secrets
that the Mother kept close to her soul
you’d see him sit quiet - smoking and dreaming
with his thoughts always under control.
And sometimes at night when the hard work was done
and we sat round the camp fires to yarn.
He’d tell of the rainbow serpent of his people.
Stories full of legend and charm.
His vision was simple, and simple his needs –
he craved not the things white folks do
but his love of country - Mate that you could feel
a good bloke he was. Real true blue.
Those days are long gone but I often recall
that bloke far too pale to be Midnight.
I valued a friendship that stood staunch and strong
through the outblack shadows to daywhite.
I hope that he rests in his heart country now,
found his dreaming at last – no doors slamming.
For I heard my mate passed on the stroke of midnight
and I reckon he must have been gammin’.
He was known as eleven fifty nine he said
which we thought was just a trifle strange
but we didn’t ask him how that tag came about,
we accepted that just as his name.
Once we got to know him a little bit better,
we thought that we’d ask him to tell.
How he grinned as he spoke – he’s a pretty nice bloke
and you quickly fell under his spell.
Well as he told the yarn of his long ago days
when he was still a slip of a lad,
he told how he worked on big stations outback,
droving cattle alongside his Dad.
He said that the blokes he worked with were all cards
and he got on with them. They were right,
they reckoned although a blackfella he was –
he wasn’t black enough for midnight.
So that’s how he came by the strange name he had –
eleven fifty nine was well known.
I doubt if he weighed in at one hundred pounds
and was quite a bit shy of eight stone.
He was wiry and slim but as strong as an ox
with a grin that would light up the dark;
just as well he reckoned, for he had heard tell,
that the boss thought him quite a bright spark.
He could ride any horse as a matter of course
though the equine concerned wasn’t broke.
But they followed his lead and each brumby paid heed,
must have been in the way that he spoke.
Give him twenty minutes and you’d see him riding
that brumby bred mare from the scrub
with never a pig root or indignant squeal.
They’d be standing docile for a rub.
He could shear with the best – we put him to the test,
this bloke barely broke out in a sweat.
And the big dollars fell as onlookers will tell,
there were plenty there willing to bet.
He worked neck and neck with the shearer from Gulgong
and their tallies kept going higher
then the gun shearer broke on his second last stroke –
as to why none were game to enquire.
There was nothing that fazed him he’d take on the lot,
be it droving or crutching or fencing
and always along with a joke and a smile
there’d be wisdom that he’d be dispensing.
He’d lived off the land and he knew the secrets
that the Mother kept close to her soul
you’d see him sit quiet - smoking and dreaming
with his thoughts always under control.
And sometimes at night when the hard work was done
and we sat round the camp fires to yarn.
He’d tell of the rainbow serpent of his people.
Stories full of legend and charm.
His vision was simple, and simple his needs –
he craved not the things white folks do
but his love of country - Mate that you could feel
a good bloke he was. Real true blue.
Those days are long gone but I often recall
that bloke far too pale to be Midnight.
I valued a friendship that stood staunch and strong
through the outblack shadows to daywhite.
I hope that he rests in his heart country now,
found his dreaming at last – no doors slamming.
For I heard my mate passed on the stroke of midnight
and I reckon he must have been gammin’.