G'day,
While old Terry's away at his writing group Wordsmiths of Melton, I thought I'd go through a few of his poems and see if I could find one to give me some inspiration and write one of mine. This is the one I found, he hasn't finished it yet, but I'll push him into it over the next couple of days. I'm sure he won't mind me putting it up. I'll try to do something along the same lines, but give it a modern twist to the theme of Heading Home.
Watch out for it in the next couple of days.
Heading Home
Every
Saturday I’d see him as he struggled from his seat,
He’d
grab his battered leather hat and thrust it on his head
His
bright old eyes would dart around looking for his walking stick
“Where
the bloody hell you been?” were his words to welcome you
But
his grip still firm as iron as he would shake you by the hand
Independent
over eighty years and now unsteady on his feet
But
those Saturdays were great days you could tell it in his smile
Into
that old red Falcon Ute he’d climb and pull his seat belt on
“Come
on man what’s keeping you” he’d growl, trying not to grin
I’d
slam the door shut on his side and run 'round to take the wheel
I’d
turn the key and start the beast and slip her into gear, let out the clutch
And
then off we’d go North up the road and made a merry mile
For
not many now would know it but the old bloke liked to sing
And
I swear that he’d lose thirty years as his memory wandered back
“They’ll
never fix this ruddy road” you would hear him reminisce
With
an arm out of the window the terrain he would point out
Of
where the trains crashed one dark night just south of Walloway
Then
through the gravel creek we’d lurch sending dust and stones about
“Where’d
you learn to drive like that? Keep it up and your neck I’ll ring”
We
would head up through the hills of Eurelia and on to Carrieton
And
like sometimes he’d like to stop at the pub to yarn and have a beer
For
the pub had brought him friendship and he’d seen them come and go
Keith
Rasheed had the pub these days and treated the old man right
‘Cause
both were born of busman blood and that code they understood
And
back into the Ute he’d get and again behind the wheel I’d slide
Then
on up the road to Yanyarrie to the land from nature he had won
He
really would be lively now as we came upon the Old Yanyarrie gate
The
dust would barely settle as with a rush the door he’d fling aside
“I’ll
get the gate he’d laugh” at me and I know that he was now eighty four
Yet
like a five year old he couldn’t wait to get there and take a look around
Down
to the old station homestead once a home so strong and warm
And
he lingers in the doorway “I remember this,” with misty eyes he tells me
“It’s
just here at this old front door. for me that she would wait”
“But
come along now” he’d call to me “we had better fetch that wood”
We
would drive down past the wooden stockyards of rails made by hand
