UNTIL TOMORROW
© Kevin Pye
Winner, 2025 Banjo Paterson Writing Award, Orange NSW.
I can read it in his eyes, just as clear as azure skies--
come and join me in a song, take me out where I belong,
far away from neon's glare.
When the galleries of Galahs swoop and screech from old Belars,
they will herald Spring time showers, that will sprout the native flowers
on the canvas painted there.
As a boy of ninety years, mourning eyes bereft of tears
can't discern the truth somewhere, in the photo of pair,
sixty years in silver frame.
From the album that I show, shifting thoughts begin to flow
from a far and distant place, vaguely reminiscent face,
lacking order or a name.
Single furrows neatly turned, Christmas Day the bush fire burned,
rabbit plagues across the land, wool clips bearing stencilled brand,
then he's lost to further thoughts.
Fleeting moments lend a clue to the life a pioneer knew,
guiding light the “Golden Rule”, horseback journeys to the school
by a ten year old in shorts.
Where the western shearers go, peeling fleece with each long blow
while the tar boy waits his turn, watching what he has to learn,
he was master in his shed.
At the end of every run, when the counting had been done,
with the tallies on the board and the “Ringer's” claim was scored,
he ensured that all were fed.
Where the drovers rest at night 'neath a chandelier of light
and the syncopated chains back the curlews' sad refrains,
he would ride his watch on “Scamp”.
He could fit a horse with shoes, train a colt to not refuse
the saddle on its back or the fear of lash and crack,
when the cattle broke from camp.
Now I sit beside his bed where he spends lost days instead,
living out his younger days, singing songs and rounding strays
with his faithful mate, old “Blue”.
Hope asks he'll recognise me as the son I used to be,
for he loves to talk a while and I'm cheered to see the smile
of the parent I once knew.
Soon I'll take my leave once more, quietly close the coded door,
ponder more the day's events, treasure words of Father's sense,
formed when life was kind to him.
Nurse arrives with pills in hand, scheduled as the doctor planned.
“Who is that,” I hear him ask, clouded by Dementia's mask,
drawing sleep to life and limb?
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