Hwork for w/e 20/4/15 - FOR KING AND COUNTRY ROADS
Posted: Tue Apr 07, 2015 8:35 am
FOR KING AND COUNTRY ROADS … Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet
He used to be a trucky but the war gods rang the bell
calling for king and country, calling coo-ee. Was the knell
of distant bells heard here at all? Seems not, for all the blokes
were signing up to fight – a ripper stoush, a bloody joke.
They thronged the harbour walls to wave the men a fond farewell.
The old Queen in the harbour wore her battle shades as well
on this day so bright and sunny with the air warm, crisp and clean -
nothing like where they were going to become a war machine…
The old homestead abandoned now – they left when Jack was killed
around the fields lie fallow all neglected and untilled.
No smoke comes from the chimney and no light shines from the door
the heart of this house left the day that young Jack went to war.
The photos in the album show a picture of those times.
There’s Jack, that young, good looking bloke, and hiding there behind
was Mum – somewhat embarrassed in that tent dress of bright blue
that hid her advanced pregnancy . Yes son, that bump was you.
Geraniums bloomed brightly in the garden near the door
and the white paint fairly sparkled as did the kitchen floor,
there was washing on the clothesline – ‘twas a bright and sunny day
and the fields around were golden with the promise of fresh hay…
He drove the highways daily, travelled miles across this land
in solitude, gave his thoughts rein and thought about the man -
his father, who he never met, who forfeited the chance
the day he disembarked with mates upon the shores of France.
His Dad once was a trucky – of a modest little rig
unlike the huge road train his son drove – that combo was big .
A huge Kenny – a freightliner – an eighteen speed machine
King of the road, with guts and grunt, and power to spare and mean.
And sometimes when he had the time a small detour he took
along the road out past the farm, taking the time to look
and see the land his Dad died for and in his mind he saw
again the red geraniums that bloomed around the door.
He used to be a trucky but the war gods rang the bell
calling for king and country, calling coo-ee. Was the knell
of distant bells heard here at all? Seems not, for all the blokes
were signing up to fight – a ripper stoush, a bloody joke.
They thronged the harbour walls to wave the men a fond farewell.
The old Queen in the harbour wore her battle shades as well
on this day so bright and sunny with the air warm, crisp and clean -
nothing like where they were going to become a war machine…
The old homestead abandoned now – they left when Jack was killed
around the fields lie fallow all neglected and untilled.
No smoke comes from the chimney and no light shines from the door
the heart of this house left the day that young Jack went to war.
The photos in the album show a picture of those times.
There’s Jack, that young, good looking bloke, and hiding there behind
was Mum – somewhat embarrassed in that tent dress of bright blue
that hid her advanced pregnancy . Yes son, that bump was you.
Geraniums bloomed brightly in the garden near the door
and the white paint fairly sparkled as did the kitchen floor,
there was washing on the clothesline – ‘twas a bright and sunny day
and the fields around were golden with the promise of fresh hay…
He drove the highways daily, travelled miles across this land
in solitude, gave his thoughts rein and thought about the man -
his father, who he never met, who forfeited the chance
the day he disembarked with mates upon the shores of France.
His Dad once was a trucky – of a modest little rig
unlike the huge road train his son drove – that combo was big .
A huge Kenny – a freightliner – an eighteen speed machine
King of the road, with guts and grunt, and power to spare and mean.
And sometimes when he had the time a small detour he took
along the road out past the farm, taking the time to look
and see the land his Dad died for and in his mind he saw
again the red geraniums that bloomed around the door.
