H/work w.e. 12/11/12 - DRIFT AWAY
Posted: Mon Oct 29, 2012 11:07 pm
Drift Away
He'd seen me through the good and bad, at times the only mate I had
and now he lay, a shattered wreck, a shell splinter had pierced his neck.
Each breath came in short rapid gasps and each was close to being his last.
His red blood pumped from ragged wound and yet he made nary a sound.
His chestnut hair was red with blood; he lay where once before he stood,
dark brown eyes showed the deepest pain, he’d never rise to walk again.
He had no words to speak his plea but those eyes spoke volumes to me,
this much loved mate I knew so well, was down, injured and suffering hell.
I drew my pistol, checked the breech and knelt beside him – let him reach
towards my hand one final time, caressed his brow, this mate of mine
and none there had the right to do what must be done and so I knew
that at the end ‘twas up to me to let him die with dignity.
I bent and kissed his whiskered chin. We’d been through so much, me and him.
I pressed the muzzle to his ear and shed a solitary tear.
Then drawing breath, to him I spoke, as man to man and bloke to bloke
and told him I was justly proud of him who’d fought the fight unbowed.
And now I’d show him due respect and ease his pain – I would expect
a mate to do the same for me if in the place where he now be.
I said ‘Goodbye Mate, thanks a lot’ and let him have that single shot
that stole his life, but eased his pain, and then tears fell like falling rain.
His brown eyes glazed, his ribs were still, he drew no breath, I’d made the kill
but oh the pain cut to the quick – I’d shot a mate, I felt heartsick.
I’d have to write a letter home and tell Dad we had lost the roan.
News I hated to convey - ‘twas French soil now held Drift- a –way.
There’s some who’d say – ‘He’s just a horse’ But they don’t understand of course.
I’d raised this bloke since he was born at Texas one cold wintry dawn.
I’d broken him in, taught him tricks, chased cattle through dense mulga thick,
and mustered sheep on Bailey’s run. Then came the call of the Kings Drum.
And war is hate and war is hell – and men still die, and bells still knell.
This horse died on the Western Front – and still my uncle feels the brunt.
Maureen Clifford © 10/12
He'd seen me through the good and bad, at times the only mate I had
and now he lay, a shattered wreck, a shell splinter had pierced his neck.
Each breath came in short rapid gasps and each was close to being his last.
His red blood pumped from ragged wound and yet he made nary a sound.
His chestnut hair was red with blood; he lay where once before he stood,
dark brown eyes showed the deepest pain, he’d never rise to walk again.
He had no words to speak his plea but those eyes spoke volumes to me,
this much loved mate I knew so well, was down, injured and suffering hell.
I drew my pistol, checked the breech and knelt beside him – let him reach
towards my hand one final time, caressed his brow, this mate of mine
and none there had the right to do what must be done and so I knew
that at the end ‘twas up to me to let him die with dignity.
I bent and kissed his whiskered chin. We’d been through so much, me and him.
I pressed the muzzle to his ear and shed a solitary tear.
Then drawing breath, to him I spoke, as man to man and bloke to bloke
and told him I was justly proud of him who’d fought the fight unbowed.
And now I’d show him due respect and ease his pain – I would expect
a mate to do the same for me if in the place where he now be.
I said ‘Goodbye Mate, thanks a lot’ and let him have that single shot
that stole his life, but eased his pain, and then tears fell like falling rain.
His brown eyes glazed, his ribs were still, he drew no breath, I’d made the kill
but oh the pain cut to the quick – I’d shot a mate, I felt heartsick.
I’d have to write a letter home and tell Dad we had lost the roan.
News I hated to convey - ‘twas French soil now held Drift- a –way.
There’s some who’d say – ‘He’s just a horse’ But they don’t understand of course.
I’d raised this bloke since he was born at Texas one cold wintry dawn.
I’d broken him in, taught him tricks, chased cattle through dense mulga thick,
and mustered sheep on Bailey’s run. Then came the call of the Kings Drum.
And war is hate and war is hell – and men still die, and bells still knell.
This horse died on the Western Front – and still my uncle feels the brunt.
Maureen Clifford © 10/12
