It was an interesting exercise and thanks to those at ABPA who so kindly allowed me to showcase and use some of their work.
When John and I started writing this we had no idea where it was going - but it turned out remarkably cohesive in my opinon - Hope Neville agrees.
and hope you like it.The Ballad of Kate Hall
J
Ride north until you sight `Spring Ridge’
to the west of Blackall,
then take the track beside the bridge
where the blue gums grow tall,
and spur your horse to cross the ford
over sandy shallows
then turn due east, then right toward
the outcrop known as `Gallows.’
M
You’ll see the Homestead waiting there
beneath silky oak trees,
and oh my love do not despair
if at first you don’t see
the one who loves you best of all
awaiting at the gate,
for I’m resigned oh husband dear
to what is now my fate.
J
That day a rider, Frank Scanlon
the homestead track did ride.
A scoundrel bush ranger felon
with burning hate inside.
He boldly bailed-up Mistress Hall
sought jewellery and cash,
and said he’d made this social call
to rob the squatter trash.
M
But this time he’d picked his mark wrong
no weak fair maid was she.
She stared him boldly in the eye
with his demands agreed,
and bending to her dresser drawer
her jewellery box did fetch;
a loaded pistol she did palm
and shot the bloody wretch.
J
Kate’s bullet skimmed through Scanlon’s hair,
ricocheted off the wall.
Then still with force to down an Ox
it caused Scanlon to fall.
Its passage not deflected by
a shattered jug of rum;
unimpeded forward progress -
lead bullet entered bum.
M
He fell to ground with mighty thud
and piercing yells of pain,
his Moleskins stained with bright red blood
he’d not come here again.
He dragged himself across the floor
as steely eyed—Kate watched.
The pistol firmly levelled now
and pointing near his crotch.
M
Now for his manhood Scanlon feared,
he’d seen that look before,
the last time he'd left her standing
beside the homestead door.
Big with child and belly swollen,
salt tears on her sweet face -
she’d loved the scoundrel Scanlon then.
Another time and place.
J
She’d given him the love she had.
To him it was but fun.
Then just like he, the seed was bad
she had a still born son.
And later she received a note;
he blamed her for the death.
He rued the day they met, he wrote,
and would till his last breath.
J
‘twas then, her husband, Sir Chudleigh,
entered onto the scene
And to his horror he did see
an outlaw raw and mean;
who on his elbow raised his gun,
to aim, at Kate’s fair head
So Chudleigh fired, the chamber spun—
he shot the scoundrel dead.
M
She saw him bleed, she saw him fall
her face was set like stone
their secret now had died with him
for her sins she’d atone.
She’d no regrets – no sorrow felt,
he’d killed her love the day
he walked away and left her there,
not heeding her dismay .
J
Then pine box rattled in the dray,
dark duty to fulfil.
They crossed the ford near ‘Mandalay’
and plodded up the hill.
Where they interred the Devil’s slave;
in stony barren ground.
No rough-hewn cross did mark his grave,
no simple words— no sound.
M
But rumour tells on windswept nights
that Scanlon rides the track,
down to the homestead near the trees -
upon his ghostly hack.
He longs for Katie and the child.
His regrets, far too late.
Destined to wait for evermore.
Resigned now to his fate.
A collaborative effort by John - Jasper Brush & Maureen Clifford © 11/10
I must admit I am a bit dubious about collaborative poems because I fear it might destroy the unity that I believe a poem should have. That just my perspective. 
