Gone Forever More

[Bob Pacey]

Gone Forever More

I remember times when stockmen roamed across this wide brown land
when they spread cattle on the stock routes and long paddock grasses grand.
When ranges echoed to their shouts and the crack of stock whips rang
as they chased the cleanskins scrubbers which from hidden gullies sprang.

I recall the bellows of the cattle; the songs they sang in quiet refrain
as dust clouds from a thousand head of bullocks drifted out upon the plain.
I still see the wattle and the gums as they stand tall on barren river banks
while they wait for those life giving rains then bloom in silent thanks.

But now where cattle camps were strewn across the open plains
piles of mining over burden stand scoured by driving rains.
Where once the sunburnt ringers with cleanskins plied their trade
the ravaged riverbanks and gullies fight against the dozers blade.

The black soil flats out near the nine mile are now a busy aerodrome
and the rows and rows of donga’s are their home away from home.
The acid pits of green tinged water from the washing plants so large
sit idly in the tailing dams to await it’s putrid foul discharge.

Workmen in flouro vests and baseball caps now breast the local bar
flown in for twelve day on off shifts from places near and far.
No more the wiry ringer who rode night watch round the mob
no connection with the dreamtime for these blokes it’s “Just a job”.

The dump trucks slowly rumble down into that massive hole
where draglines tear the earth asunder to reach the precious coal.
It was there the drovers ran their mobs spread wide to catch the feed
as they fought to save the ones they could, that was their only creed.

There are still places in this land where those dark tanned ringers run
where the gidgee coals burn brightly, backlit by the setting sun.
Where the horses work the muster then rest quietly in the shade
undisturbed by quad bikes roaring or the choppers whirring blade.

But the times are changing quickly and I can but sit and dream
for the futures underneath the ground in a glistening black gold seam.
The time may come when it expires, and these boom times are no more.
and our heritage will be but distant memories, gone forever more.

Bob Pacey ( C )

[Catherine Lee]

This is beaut Bob - I particularly like the second to last stanza.

[Bob Pacey]

Thanks you Catherine going over quite a few old poems since my putor rebuild just trying to find them is hard enough.



Bob