The pretty patterns of the valley
Are the order of the tribes, With neatly packaged parcels Of the people and their lives. All wrapped firmly and securely In the wooded arms of hills, The place of people is safe and sure From the mountains and their wills. For the valleys and the coastlines Provide our every need, From the bookshelf and the cooking fire To our family and our creed. So people of this star-filled place From the valley’s ordered length, Find some room in your wandering hearts For your dreaming, and its strength. And when we take a moment’s time To breathe the seaside breeze, Or lift our blinkered eyes To the place above the trees, The sea will spray us With her diamonds salty white, And the mountains will roll a fog Down from their cold as crystal night To touch us with the wilderness And stir us from our haste, So that our hearts will cry to go wandering, To find their dreaming place. So people of this star-filled place From the valley’s ordered length, Find some room in your wandering hearts For your dreaming, and its strength. Way above the ragged spurs In the belly of the clouds, You’ll meet the master of the patterns As the dream-spinner spins her charms To take you on a journey Through time at another pace, To show your wandering heart The mountain dreaming place. Where the mountain air and the stars Will light your darkest part, And land you softly in the valley With the dreaming in your heart. So people of this star-filled place From the valley’s ordered length, Find some room in your wandering hearts For your dreaming, and its strength.
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Now Billy the Breaker
Had a way with horses – Kind hands, gentle touch, Patience, but firm voices. His yard rails were a place to lean And yarn about chestnuts, duns and greys, The bone of leg, the carriage of head Of fillies and colts and bays. And always a few young blokes Would be draped about the fence, Dead keen students of breaking, Who listened little and learned even less. But they knew how to wear horsemen’s gear Belts, pouches, plaited this ‘n’ that, Boots and white moleskins And mostly a brand new hat. And it could be noted that Billy’s hat Was a little battered and far from new – A sweatband stain and bushman’s bash, A few holes where the dog had a chew. There was one who never left Billy’s heel or side – A true apprentice of the trade Who followed his every move, wide-eyed, From dawn to dusk in that dusty yard. Observation was this student’s key, And one thing he knew before the rest, Was that the man in the battered hat Knew his horses by far the best. So he figured that to be a horseman Of skill and some renown, You’d have to have your hat All knocked about and leaky in the crown. From that moment of sparkling wisdom The dog knew his trade and job Was to catch and break those stiff new hats Of the yard rail expert mob. It took some skill and a well placed nip To catch the bronco hat – First a bite on the heel and foot Of the bloke as he leant to pat. With a yelp and a curse of “Bloody hell!” The stripling snapped up straight, And off his head with a wild duck flight Flew his untrained, bucking hat. It was man and hat and dog in flight In the dusty yard and shute, And the dog was far too quick To be caught by the flying boot. He ducked and rolled as he eyed the hat In its mad and spinning flight, And with a fearless leap he sprang To bring down its furry might. With his paw upon the trembling brim He tore at the dome and crown, For if he let this young hat win His chances of breaking it were gone. He felt his teeth sink deep and hard Into something soft and frail, Just as an angry boot Fair caught him under the tail. He was torn from his task With a reeling spin, With bulging eyes and throbbing tongue Where his own teeth had sunken in. He landed in a dusty heap And heard an angry yell. From that he knew his task was lost – It was time to take a spell. Slinking under the peppercorn tree, He reflected on his haste And the quiet manner of his master’s ways. Then he dumbly knew his mistake. All the while the top-rail mob Laughed at their mate’s misfortune, But not a one caught the drift Of the hat breaker’s excursion. Stirrup iron to stirrup iron
They rode the dusty track, She sat upon the dapple grey He rode the fiery black. They pushed along at a faster trot To beat the fading light, Behind them lay thirty miles Of running from the night. The haunting thoughts of dark events Seemed to lurk close all day, In the urgent beat of the horse’s feet On the dry and stony clay. But oh! how a man’s heart Can turn him far away From what he knows is right And how he finds his way When in a moment of beating pride He throws his weight around, To break and bust his very world And leave a man on the ground. While she is caught in a rushing stream Of regrets and hopes and fear, The long dusk shadows wheel them on Through the tall, dense forests so near. The horses seem caught in the very mood And hardly show the strain Of pushing hard the whole day long – The black still leans on curb and chain. He knows the country pretty well From working stock and plant, As a keen, young, blonde-haired bloke In old Mac’s mustering camp. As now they climb the Snowgum ridge The horses show the foam, And they push along the old wing fence Where the bucks were turned for home. It can’t be far to that sheltered hollow And to the bleached and leaning hut By a spring-fed mountain stream Where the long day’s ride will cut. In a moment of feeling free and wild From the burden of his trials, He gives the black his fiery head And puts him at the rails. But the spring in his horse is nearly done And he clips the top of the fence, To land in one big messy heap Of man and leather and beast. And now, in her own good time, Her thoughts return to where he lay. It may be fifty years down the track But it still takes her breath away. For even now she feels the passion As she sits in an old cane chair, Dappled by the golden grapes In the cool verandah air While in the yard the boisterous kids Romp with the dogs at play, And together with the old grey woman Enjoy their youth’s bright day. So you’ve come to Young’s to get away
From the things that nag and hark, The places and paces that spoil a day And shadowy thoughts that turn so dark. I guess you’ve come from salty airs By the long white sandy coast, Where scrubby bush and headland pairs Make sheltered bays for bobbing boats. Or maybe your house of pretty hues Is lost in the city’s wilderness, Where millions of souls ache for views Of something better than ugliness. Then again you could be off the plains Where many miles make up a day, And the sky is big, your heart is big There’s very little to get in your way. Wherever your home, wherever your place I’m pleased you’ve come this way, Because whatever your ways, whatever your face You’ll be richer when on your way. |
Author"Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind." Categories
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May 2017
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As a practicing artist I have travelled far and wide across Australia, walked on country, camped on country and rolled out my swag. I thank the custodians and I acknowledge the traditional owners of country throughout Australia and their continuing connection to land, culture and community. I pay my respect to Elders past and present.