Barraba in Winter
Posted: Wed May 24, 2023 5:01 pm
Barraba in New South Wales is either hot or cold,
the heat will melt the rubber off your thongs!
The winter frost so cruel that events are put on hold -
it freezes bunyips in their billabongs!
Spending winter holidays out there at Nan and Pop’s -
some cousins, two or three, would be there too.
Wrapped up in our hats and coats on errand to the shops,
would slip and slide through ice as children do.
Threepences were slipped into each mittened hand by Pop,
for bags of broken bickies from the store.
Mr. Myers always dropped a butterscotch on top,
was in our mouths before we made the door!
Cold and wet and laughing we all tumbled through the gate,
and huddled ‘round the old black fuel stove.
We all knew what was coming and not one of us could wait,
for one of many stories our Pop wove.
We’d have our mug of Milo, not too steamy but just right.
Bathed before the fire - top and tail.
The last one in the old tin tub, the youngest cousin’s plight,
then gramma pie and custard without fail.
Five abreast we’d huddle up along a threadbare couch,
anticipation such that no-one spoke.
No-one dared to fidget, perfect posture, not a slouch,
as we waited for our Pop’s electric coat!
No on/off switch, no cord was seen to plug into a wall,
the secret safely kept behind our grins.
We knew that magic heated it because it warmed us all,
as soon as it was tucked beneath our chins!
Innocence belonged to us, we’d not a worldly care,
No loss of loved ones scoured our hearts till raw,
That old grey woolen garment was our Nan and Pop’s despair,
‘twas our Uncle’s greatcoat from the war.
the heat will melt the rubber off your thongs!
The winter frost so cruel that events are put on hold -
it freezes bunyips in their billabongs!
Spending winter holidays out there at Nan and Pop’s -
some cousins, two or three, would be there too.
Wrapped up in our hats and coats on errand to the shops,
would slip and slide through ice as children do.
Threepences were slipped into each mittened hand by Pop,
for bags of broken bickies from the store.
Mr. Myers always dropped a butterscotch on top,
was in our mouths before we made the door!
Cold and wet and laughing we all tumbled through the gate,
and huddled ‘round the old black fuel stove.
We all knew what was coming and not one of us could wait,
for one of many stories our Pop wove.
We’d have our mug of Milo, not too steamy but just right.
Bathed before the fire - top and tail.
The last one in the old tin tub, the youngest cousin’s plight,
then gramma pie and custard without fail.
Five abreast we’d huddle up along a threadbare couch,
anticipation such that no-one spoke.
No-one dared to fidget, perfect posture, not a slouch,
as we waited for our Pop’s electric coat!
No on/off switch, no cord was seen to plug into a wall,
the secret safely kept behind our grins.
We knew that magic heated it because it warmed us all,
as soon as it was tucked beneath our chins!
Innocence belonged to us, we’d not a worldly care,
No loss of loved ones scoured our hearts till raw,
That old grey woolen garment was our Nan and Pop’s despair,
‘twas our Uncle’s greatcoat from the war.
