This morning I reworked an old poem I wrote back around 2010. Far from perfect I am trying to write without listening to the rhyme in my head and for me this is difficult because when I write, I also hear a melody in the words I'm thinking.
Thoughts about my forebears come flooding into my mind, people like Ron Lindo who was killed in New Guinea during WW II.
Uncle Doug Symes who ran away from home to go droving before joining the Royal Australian Navy where he served for any years.
I think about the times my own father who grew up on the banks of the Coorong at Goolwa, went on to serve in the RAAF and after the war, made his home in Orroroo where he raised his family on the proceeds from his business Pro Motors.
I think of the many English lesson daydreams I'd have while watching a windmill lazily roll around its axis. My teacher's frustrations as she tried her best to focus my and my classes' attention to the works of C.J, Dennis, Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson.
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| Uncle Doug Symes 90th birthday |
Today as I try to channel their muses, I find myself regretting I didn't pay proper attention and feeling some of the same frustration when the words don't come. However, now when I read some of my older work, I realise something from those distant days seeped into the grey matter between my ears. Now, as I love listening to those old stories and try my best to write even better ones, I know I'm not there yet. However, the more I write the more confident I am and in that, I know I am spinning a better yarn.
Heroes:
All
along the wide and lonely stock route
And
across the drying plain,
with
horse, stock-whip and saddle
Our
Aussie outback heroes
fought
flood and fire and famine
And
for not much more than tucker, did it all
So
kids, when you see his statue
And
you feel inclined to climb
And
disregard the fall
Take a
moment to remember
That
he stands here a tribute
To you
and me, Australians all.
He’s
the one who battled loneliness
and
constant demons of his mind.
High
of skill yet lowly paid,
the
outback in his blood
Leave
him rest here where he stands
for he
has done more than just his time
He is
an icon to us all
Offer
up a subtle prayer
or
leave fresh flowers at his feet
For
he’s our image of ourselves
tempered
by Australia's sun
And
often wet or dry or lonely
he did
his best
Until
one day on a deserted plain
his
maker, he did meet
For
droving 's more than just a job
And
there’s nothing more wholesome
Than
riding with the mob
Bringing
sheep and cattle down
to the
town and city’s table
And
when called to war
For
his country gave it all
