By the Sliprails

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Maureen K Clifford
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Joined: Tue Nov 09, 2010 10:31 am
Location: Ipswich - Paul Pisasale country and home of the Ipswich Poetry Feast

By the Sliprails

Post by Maureen K Clifford » Mon Jul 08, 2019 4:24 pm

By the Sliprails ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

Old post and rail fences disguised with grey lichen,
in disrepair stand or slump on the bare earth
well eroded and trampled, with faint hoof prints showing,
and old dried manure. Tall prickly pear growing
their brilliant red flower, in bright sunlight glowing.
Their seeds spread by wild pig - the cause of rebirth.

Old snow gums stand stately, white limbs reaching skyward
their old broken branches festooning the ground.
Silver foliage shelters the owl, roo and wild dog,
and at night one can hear the Corroborree frog
serenading a female beneath a log
with its unique Ah-rurkk ... urkk ...urkk, or squelch sound.

Then falls velvet evening, and in drift quiet shadows
to old stock yards where salt licks are remembered
First enters a chestnut mare with her young foal at foot
a bay mare follows close, each hoof daintily put -
whilst a bob tailed yearling with nose black as soot
barges through, 'cause he's totally self centered.

And the stallion shelters, hiding in shadow
dark hide indistinct in the camouflage dark
Then an owl swooping low causes heads to rise sharply
they're off, all in unison moving right smartly
and running like wildfire - the stallion neighs - he
swivels soft ears to locate the dingoes bark .

With their hindquarters tensed and dappled with colour
they clear fallen snow gums impeding their way
and both the small foals mimic each move their Mums make
sticking close to her flanks though their little hearts quake.
The thunder of hooves follows close in their wake.
Their stallion savagely chivvies the strays.

And high on a hill a lone warrigal gives voice
he howls at the moon on this cold frosty night
as the yarramans thunder along stony pathways
led by the old matriarch, gray with a white blaze
who knows every inch of these mountains - their maize.
To secret asylum she led them in flight.

Old post and rail sliprails disguised with grey lichen,
once stockyards, stand empty , devoid of all life;
but eroded red soil showed sign of recent hoof prints
and one freshly upended rock in moonlight glints
still lingering, the scent of freshly crushed mints
but the brumbies are gone - now removed from life.

This poem was inspired by the beautiful photos from The Snowy Brumby Heritage Group - ... =3&theater
Check out The Scribbly Bark Poets blog site here -

I may not always succeed in making a difference, but I will go to my grave knowing I at least tried.

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