Not up to everyone's standard but you have to make allowance for my old age
John
The Drifter
The road dusted red to the homestead,
I arrived at the — DoubleJB,
and tethered my horse near an old shed
in the shade of a peppermint tree.
There in front of a rusted farm gate
stood a jackaroo meeting my gaze.
He said. ‘You looking for a job mate?
Are you willing to help a few days?’
‘I’ve been told you need men for a ride;
who are seasoned with steel in their veins?
So, I’ve ridden— to be by your side—
and embrace the dry heat of the plains.’
‘Then come forward, and join us, my friend;
spend some days chasing dust and the flies—
a-droving on our stations top end
with the sun putting squints in your eyes’
‘Well, I’m only, here for a short stay,
and I’m eager to show what I’ve got;
I’m outspoken and like my own-way,
but, it’s me, and I’m not what I’m not.’
So, I signed on as one of the crew
to muster the station’s wild cattle.
There were days of tough riding to do;
move in, wheel, turn heads— win the battle.
We shifted through spinifex and scrubs
by billabongs, and western rivers.
Drove into towns with bleary-eyed pubs,
then onto red soil, sand, and gibbers.
It was sunup when we found the mob
scattered loosely under Brigalow,
with whips a-cracking did our job,
chased them, flicking their tails, on the go.
Outriders, worked the flanks at a pace
fanning hats in an arc in the haze;
at a yell, stockmen raced into place,
keeping the line and capturing strays.
Then down into dry gullies we fled,
thick dust screwing, as smoke, in our wake;
while the rampaging beasts up ahead
shook the ground like a rumbling earthquake.
At the wheel, we spun round in a bound,
our mounts at the lean— mouths dripping foam,
then shifting our weight— made for flat ground
while straightening the mob towards home.
Tanned skin trickle slivers of sweat,
while deft hands, slacken off, on the reins.
‘We’ll strike fences by sundown, I’ll bet—
and our empty paddock on the plains.’
We continued into the grey light—
yarded three hundred head on the run,
and turned into our bunks at midnight
our long days in the saddle were done.
On the rise the melodious call
of a butcher bird low on the wing;
in the backdrop a crows drifting drawl—
escapes down with sorrowful ring.
I greeted the old man by the gate,
he gripped to my hand, with a smile.
He said. ‘You were good as your word mate
you’re the best rider I’ve seen in a while.’
I thanked him and bid him farewell,
It had all been excitement and fun;
and now I’d shift along for a spell
to my Shoalhaven broad acre run
This morning I saddled the grey mare
and set-off, at a trot, down the track
to descend to the fresh coastal air
with the winds gentle breeze on my back.
John Macleod© 2012
