Melanie Hall - bush poet

A Father and his daughter share a bond that none can part,
To hear his voice or touch is hand, will sooth her troubled heart.
When she’s confused, or feeling pain, she craves her Dads’ embrace,
Inside the shelter of his arms she’s filled peace and grace.

My Father’s always there for me. He helps me when I down,
And though to me he’s simply Dad he’s ‘Egg Man’ back in town.
He’s at the Markets every week, sells Free Range Eggs with Mum,
And on their really busy days they’d ask if I would come

And help to serve their customers, and one big bloke called Hans
Would buy a half a dozen eggs, then tell my Dad his plans,
He hadn’t seen his child for years, not since her Mother died,
His daughter living overseas, returning to his side.

One week the girl was with him, he never said her name,
He introduced her as ‘The Kid’ so that’s who she became.
Hans told us she was thirty three, she only looked nineteen,
Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde, the fairest skin I’d seen.

They’d only buy their eggs from us, they lived outside of town,
We gave his daughter ‘special eggs’, because she liked ‘em brown.
They always came, they never missed, though sometimes they were late.
Then Dad would keep the Kids brown eggs, she was the Egg Mans’ mate.

One week they didn’t come at all, their eggs were never sold,
The next week came, they didn’t come, their order went on hold.
It must have been a month or more when Hans came ‘round again,
It’s funny how a few short weeks can quickly change some men.

It seemed he’d lost at least two stone, his face looked old and drawn,
His brawny arms were hangin’ loose, his look was so forlorn.
We thought for sure that he’d been sick, so, “Where’s the Kid?” we said,
Then tears welled up within his eyes, he sadly dropped his head.

It felt like time itself slowed down as Hans began to sway,
He clutched our table for support, his face turned sickly grey.
The eggs cascaded crazily and splattered on the ground,
Hans took a breath, his shoulders heaved, he never made a sound.

He stared at all those broken eggs, the mess of shells of yolk,
Then raised his head and looked at Dad, he trembled when he spoke.
“I loved my daughter more than life,” he shook his head and sighed,
“All she wanted was her Dad to hold her when she died.”

“Just like her Mother, she had Cancer, starting in her breast,
The only thing she ate was eggs, and yours, she said, were best.”
Distraught, he turned and walked away, but left behind this note,
All torn and taped back up again, and this is what she wrote;

“Tomorrow Dad, when darkness lifts please cook my eggs just right,
And when you eat them, think of me, I won’t survive this night.
One final thing I ask of you, I hope I don’t impose,
Please let the dear old Egg Man know, my name was always Rose.”