ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

This is the poem that won at Cervantes

I have been wandering the WA goldfields for the best part of 40 years and have often come across a lonely grave or even a forgotten graveyard. This is not surprising when you think about it, the history of the fields is full of sad stories where people including women and little children died from typhoid cholera or misadventure. And then there were the prospectors who perished or just vanished never to be seen again.
There were numerous towns that at times accommodated anywhere from a couple of hundred people to sometimes a few thousand. Most of those towns have also vanished with often not a building left and the only indication that they existed, lies in the piles of rusty cans and broken bottles. People just moved on leaving only their rubbish and their dead behind.
There are times out there when you really do sense that you’re walking with ghost.

WALKING WITH GHOSTS

I hear their whispered voices as they’re carried on the breeze
and laughter’s all around me in the sighing of the trees.
Excitement ripples through the ranks despite the searing heat
and footsteps ever echo to the tramping of their feet.

I follow now the trails they blazed and sense their ghostly ways,
at night I see them in my dreams way back in bygone days.
With tucker bags near empty and their water running low,
they dared to test the limits where a mortal man can go.

A fever burnt within them as they pressed ahead so bold,
to face this hostile country in a daring rush for gold.
And many lives were forfeit in the barren wastes outback;
their ghosts are out there wandering along each lonely track.

They join me by the campfire from the shadows of the night,
I know they’re all around me though they keep well out of sight.
I’m sure they try to guide me; show me where the nuggets lay,
but earthly ties forbid me now from hearing what they say.

By day I pass a ruin where a town once used to be,
it’s slowly disappearing and there’s little left to see.
Where streets once filled with laughter you’ll find only silence now,
along with faded memories - it seems a shame somehow.

A long forgotten graveyard huddles on a nearby hill,
no markers show who lies there but their spirits rest here still.
I feel a surge of sadness as I view some tiny mounds,
among the crumbling graves here in these dusty harsh surrounds.

I cross the sun baked clay-pans on the desert fringe again;
beneath these burning sands here lie the bones of many men.
Mirages tantalized them showing waters clear and cool,
they’re always out here waiting, for a victim they can fool.

And in these arid places where the dunes reach for the sky,
the sameness of the landscape sometimes tricked a passerby.
Men disappeared forever in this harshest of all lands,
their voices may be heard now in the songs of singing sands.

Corella’s noisy welcome means there’s water in the creek
and ghost like gums are beckoning with shade that I now seek.
Some rusty cans and bottles show that others passed here first,
perhaps in search for water when a drought was at its worst.

I sit beneath a shady tree; cool waters at my feet
and visualize those people whom in dreams I often meet.
Their courage is unquestioned and their deeds will long be known
and though it happened years ago - how quickly time has flown.

******

© T.E.Piggott 2011

I reckon the measure of a good poem is in holds your interest and if you can see the scene that the poet is painting.


Right on both counts Terry. You have a wealth of material after forty years so don't let it get lost mate.


Bob

_________________
The purpose in life is to have fun.
After you grasp that everything else seems insignificant !!!

Good one to read mate that is. I know how you often feel out there as there is a certain feeling out there that you cannot grasp yet the feeling is there undeniably there

Bill The Old Battler

Wonderful poem Terry! I know exactly what it is you're describing too. My hubbie goes detecting, and I go with him sometimes (but only on day trips, I'm not that keen). I often just sit and "feel" the atmosphere of the people who aren't there any more. Or perhaps they still are, as you say ... perhaps they too, are watching me!

One strong memory I have is of a little ghost town called Rawbelle, near Monto in Central Queensland. There is not a single sign that people had lived there - no bottles, rusted tin, rubbish or anything, but as we drove around, the GPS showed Queen Street, Mary Street, West Lane, etc ... obviously it was a large enough town to name streets, but there's not a sign any more, not a sign.

_________________
The old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be ...

Knowledge comes from experience Terry, both of which are evident in your poem.
I really enjoyed this one, very discriptive.

Cheers
Sue

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the door is always open, the kettles always on, my shoulders here to cry on, i'll not judge who's right or wrong.

Thanks Bob, Bill, Sue and Kym,

Kym,

A funny thing about this poem occurred while I was writing it, I kept having this tune popping up in my mind. In fact although I had no great expectations for the poem I decided to learn it for the poets breakfast and had the devil of a job getting away from this darn tune, especially as I’m a hopeless singer anyway. I was telling Dave about this and explained the sort of tune it was and after one or two false starts he suddenly found the exact tune I’d been thinking about, the tune was ‘Ghost Riders In The sky’. This same sort of thing has happened to me in the past and I have often wondered if this happens to other writers as well?
There is an old forgotten graveyard that I stumbled onto years ago, it’s now completely isolated without any sign of a track leading to it. For some reason I feel compelled to trek in and visit it if I’m in the area, my wife and I visited it a few weeks ago, the graves are eroding quickly now and there are no markers showing who’s there but you can still just make out some of the children’s tiny graves. Both my wife and I always have this feeling of real sadness while we’re there – strange isn’t it?

Terry

Hi Kym,

I almost forgot, you mentioned about a town that's disappeared but its street names still exist.
Most of those old places were surveyed and gazetted, it's the same over here, the one difference seems to be the piles of rusty cans and broken bottles. Even thought it's close to a 120 years ago the tin cans survive still because of the dry climate with very little rain.

Terry

congratulations mate

Congratulations Terry, and a well deserved win!!
It is a beautiful poem - as usual - and you have painted a very poignant picture.

CAtchya
IRENe

_________________
What goes around, comes around.

Thanks Matt,

It's pretty obvious this ones not every ones cup of tea, I had no real expectations but thought that if any of the three I put in got anywhere it would probably be the one this poem apparently just edged out ('A Bushman's Farewell') which is also posted on this site.
But for some reason I still liked this one as fortunately for me the judge seems to have liked as well.

Cheers mate,

Terry