Driving towards the post box…
When will it rain?
10th October…
Don’t know this place,
Mid morning sun,
Can’t turn up the sound.
Classic music,
Driving
Slow-slowly.
Bitumen to corner,
Slowly into more,
Slowly into red,
red dust. Stop.
Ute on red dust,
Pushing conflicting soils against
Posts, trees and cattle.
Music lost.
Roundness, rectangle,
Corrugation, bumping,
Pushing feet,
Pushing back,
Grounding to a
Stop.
Day silence.
Feel warmth, see colour,
Down into the creek bed.
Dip, bumpy,
Stop. Independent ducks… Go.
Wait…
Look right, water
Look left, green grass
Cattle watching in the distance.
Drought master cattle
frilled cowlick collars,
Cattle that master drought.
Watched by, passing by,
Lazy masters,
Lying rounded in
paddy melons.
Cattle are not independent.
Waiting for what?
Not my
Welcome mat,
Just another truck.
The sleek and
Floating, rustling
Emu with tight wiggling walking chicks.
Stranger arriving,
Property left to right,
Something happening, crossing
This country, redemption,
Or destruction.
Rain, redemption,
Softly.
Must be the 10th October.
Keep on going…
Sun setting, dreaming country,
Past, present, silent, fleeting, listening
Slowly, progressive another sunrise.
Rolling flat,
Real country.
More red dirt,
Sound up, waiting for
A future.
Calves waiting.
birthing,
economy of their
time and space.
Breathe, breath,
Unexpected findings,
Feet grounded.
Workers around,
Not known,
Red hat, red bike.
Another economic opportunity,
Dispossion ballot ties for them.
Instead, sheds of iron sheets,
Hoses and compressors,
Taps, gardens, gates,
Homestead and wages.
Development, stone monuments.
Power, conflict, cooperation and
Money linked to futures.
Sunrise,
I am getting to know this place.
Floss, the possum, watches, searches and
Finds other possums.
People move slower, carrying on,
moving bikes and horses.
Timber posts, wide veranda,
Wrought iron walls,
Loud voices, music, beer and jokes.
“Three bulls. Good sale, good bulls.”
Tomorrow lite rain will fall.
Stars moving monochrome relief,
Black and white nights:
Kinbombi Road to Kabunga,
Wandoan to Kabunga West,
Wandoan to Moura,
Moura near Banana,
Catfish Creek,
Dillingham, Thiess…
And steel railways
Over grey rock.
Queensland dry dusty land
Ballot win, history starts to sing.
Luck, lucky,
Work endless work.
Sticking, picking,
My Russian mate,
Stick picker, prince.
Swag man, slow walk,
No city man sits, instead regular rush.
Bungawarra to Wallaroo,
Durainga to Goowarra and
my Aboriginal mates.
Kevin and Colin
Walked up hot track,
Irish ring-barker, sweater.
We wait…
Campfire maker.
We watch…
Dough breaker.
My Aboriginal mates,
The Irish brings out
The music and jokes.
Sweat, effort,
No injuries, and
luck of ballot history
Breaks them and our backs.
Mr Fernie at Wallarroo sent help.
Frank from Springsure turns up.
Trevor Allen the scrub puller…
They mound up brigalow.
Drought our
End of the road.
Australian way,
Started ’67,
Our cattle dead.
Brigalow fed, all effort.
Water, bins, molasses
Wasted.
The I of the drover,
Home around and back.
He saved nothing but
Bottles for cash.
They bought
Groceries
Tobacco
Colin and Kevin paid
With a cheque.
We split posts, and fencing,
Left
With swag and dry throat…
A “beautiful man” with
Dark face and
An Irish tradition
A beer will fix that!
I return on the grand horse,
‘Gay Luck’.
Dad’s horse under my back.
We camp under my old
Supple back tree, near a hut.
Charlie Tinker has stayed,
Forgotten to go,
Not that bright, stuck in a trench,
A machine of man,
Planted to this historic spot.
Grand history,
started back,
Caroline, a grandmother pioneer,
Whispers
From above,
Come on love,
Not done yet.
My sister and brother,
The grandchildren of immigrants
Turned up.
They marched
170km west.
A hug, a thought,
A prayer,
A rub,
Come on, mate…
Money’s
not on the run.
