ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

Birdsville Picnic Races

Some memories are distant now – but I can still recall
the dreadful heat, the frenzy and the lack of crowd control
at the Birdsville Picnic Race Day, which happens once a year,
and I was quite excited, though the day was hot and clear.

They had come from all directions – some close, some far away,
and the crowd had grown to thousands. Some brought their own cafe.
They came in cars and trucks and utes; some choppers, even planes.
The track was hot and dusty, little shelter, frying brains.

The band struck up a tuneful song announcing time was near.
The bustling crowd determined to ensure they had a beer
grew larger by the moment as they swarmed to beat the queue,
for farmers and their stocky wives fought hard to get a brew.

But others thought the risk too great to stand in line that day -
great slabs of beer they carried as they fought to find their way
through crowds of milling people, each one keen to nab a spot
and though it wasn’t really legal, they thought they’d risk a shot.

The band of banjos, ukes and fiddles made a happy sound -
the speakers on the platform took the music ‘round the ground.
The time was drawing closer for the first race of the meet,
which meant all the patrons gathered would soon be on their feet.

The girls were dressed up to the nines; the guys in coats and ties;
some had brought their own champagne to help wash down the pies.
They’d also brought their baskets, filled with canapés and cheese.
The boys could have their beer and their pies with mushy peas.

The first race almost over; how the crowd they roared and cheered
as horses raced around the track and quickly disappeared
into a cloud of dust that rose up higher than the rails.
You couldn’t see a bloody thing – not even jockeys’ tails.

And all at once the finish line - the race was nearly done.
The favourite didn’t win it; he was beaten by his son.
The crowd went wild and scurried off their winnings to pursue,
but, others were disgruntled; hats and ties were now askew.
Gloves and hats and fancy clothes doth not a lady make.
At end of day the heat and booze left just a few awake.
Discarded gloves, heads now bare, and only stockinged feet
were left to walk the journey back at end of yearly meet.

They’d saved for months to gather at the Birdsville Picnic Race.
Their finery all crumpled as they left with little grace.
It only happens once a year. I guess its fun for some.
I’m kind of glad I went but then, I didn’t join the scrum.

© Jakki May #271

Great use of the prompts Jakki - fabulous word portrait, you took us there with the dust and the heat, the crowds and the excitement. Like you poem very much - well done.

Good on ya Jakki. Leaving the country races crumpled with little grace...I've seen that one

Very good Jakki enjoyed that not many venues like country racetracks. and you paint the picture to perfection.


Bob

Thanks guys. Always appreciate your comments. X

I liked it enough to feature it on our Facebook Page -it's a great fun poem Jakki and lovely to see you doing your 'homework'