THE DROVER'S RIDE
Posted: Sat Jun 20, 2015 10:16 am
THE DROVERS RIDE … Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet
Heading North and saddle sore. The long dark road stretched on before
him , viewed red eyed through clouds of dust and tiredness.
The cattle plodded listlessly – the paddocks round, bare as could be
the muffled barks of one, two, three dogs echoing the madness
of this, his folly. Desperation drove him, he had undertaken
to go on the road to save the last of his prized herd.
Drought had bought him to his knees, banks he needed to appease
all he prayed for was “God please, a little bit of rain.”
Hanging by a thread, his future and his marriage – time to nurture
both was hard – he found he had scarce enough hours to spare.
Mistakes we make come back to bite us, dirty little secrets find us.
Who to turn too? Was he irredeemable to prayer?
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger – Could he hold a little longer?
Rainclouds taunted often with the promise of relief.
Often he had smelt the moisture, wafted on the breezes softer
and the cattle sensed it, though perhaps with disbelief.
Inner strength and fortitude would see him through and see him do
what needed to be done – he’d not give up, ‘twas not his way.
Dewy grass each morning beckoned, rain was not far off he reckoned,
mornings wrapped in misty mantles greeted him each day.
Evenings saw the sun set over valleys steep and shaly.
Sunrise over the hills was a glorious display.
Heading North and saddle sore, the long, long road stretched on before
him, far distant horizons beckoned. Surcease for his pain.
Heading North and saddle sore. The long dark road stretched on before
him , viewed red eyed through clouds of dust and tiredness.
The cattle plodded listlessly – the paddocks round, bare as could be
the muffled barks of one, two, three dogs echoing the madness
of this, his folly. Desperation drove him, he had undertaken
to go on the road to save the last of his prized herd.
Drought had bought him to his knees, banks he needed to appease
all he prayed for was “God please, a little bit of rain.”
Hanging by a thread, his future and his marriage – time to nurture
both was hard – he found he had scarce enough hours to spare.
Mistakes we make come back to bite us, dirty little secrets find us.
Who to turn too? Was he irredeemable to prayer?
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger – Could he hold a little longer?
Rainclouds taunted often with the promise of relief.
Often he had smelt the moisture, wafted on the breezes softer
and the cattle sensed it, though perhaps with disbelief.
Inner strength and fortitude would see him through and see him do
what needed to be done – he’d not give up, ‘twas not his way.
Dewy grass each morning beckoned, rain was not far off he reckoned,
mornings wrapped in misty mantles greeted him each day.
Evenings saw the sun set over valleys steep and shaly.
Sunrise over the hills was a glorious display.
Heading North and saddle sore, the long, long road stretched on before
him, far distant horizons beckoned. Surcease for his pain.