JOURNEYS END
Posted: Tue Jul 19, 2011 10:18 am
JOURNEYS END
The big red bus reposed at a raunchy rakish angle
with its rusted headlights peering down the track.
It showed no destination, but here is where it was
and its posture said ‘I’ll never make it back’.
It was far away from city lights and smooth black bitumen ribbons
and yet it seemed to be completely unconcerned.
There must have been close on to thirty sheep there in its shade
and by local birdlife it had not been spurned.
There were rivulets of guano stark against its dulled red paint
and tyres needing more than just a puff of air.
Its chrome work had no brilliant shine – weeds clustered around its wheels
but it rested nonchalant without a care.
The stone bridge was just a little further on along the road
and beside the bridge a weathered wooden gate
opened onto a rocky track that led to the old farmhouse
whose paintwork, like the old red bus, was in a sorry state.
But there were flowers everywhere – they grew in great profusion
in drifts of pink and blue and cream. Stone chimneys let smoke vent.
Wisteria twined o’er the fence and Iceberg roses rambled
above verandahs. Chooks scratched underneath, all serene and content.
And on the gate there was a sign festooned with folk art roses
with the words that told the story, if one read between the lines.
It said this place was Journeys End – a place for weary travellers,
those with friendly dispositions were welcome at any time.
And the story goes the couple who now lived at Journeys End
once lived in the bus and drove across the highways of this land
as they searched for their Nirvana, a place of peace and love
they led a lifestyle somewhat different. Some folks didn’t understand.
And they drove into this valley and along the dusty track
the old bus developed several squeaks and groans.
It showed no destination but it wasn’t going back
and it gave its final gasp not far from home.
So since they believed in Karma and they saw the ‘For Sale’ sign
they decided that fate had chosen this place.
They bought the farm and paddocks along with sheep and chooks
their journeys end was here – their steps they’d not retrace.
Maureen Clifford © 07/11
The big red bus reposed at a raunchy rakish angle
with its rusted headlights peering down the track.
It showed no destination, but here is where it was
and its posture said ‘I’ll never make it back’.
It was far away from city lights and smooth black bitumen ribbons
and yet it seemed to be completely unconcerned.
There must have been close on to thirty sheep there in its shade
and by local birdlife it had not been spurned.
There were rivulets of guano stark against its dulled red paint
and tyres needing more than just a puff of air.
Its chrome work had no brilliant shine – weeds clustered around its wheels
but it rested nonchalant without a care.
The stone bridge was just a little further on along the road
and beside the bridge a weathered wooden gate
opened onto a rocky track that led to the old farmhouse
whose paintwork, like the old red bus, was in a sorry state.
But there were flowers everywhere – they grew in great profusion
in drifts of pink and blue and cream. Stone chimneys let smoke vent.
Wisteria twined o’er the fence and Iceberg roses rambled
above verandahs. Chooks scratched underneath, all serene and content.
And on the gate there was a sign festooned with folk art roses
with the words that told the story, if one read between the lines.
It said this place was Journeys End – a place for weary travellers,
those with friendly dispositions were welcome at any time.
And the story goes the couple who now lived at Journeys End
once lived in the bus and drove across the highways of this land
as they searched for their Nirvana, a place of peace and love
they led a lifestyle somewhat different. Some folks didn’t understand.
And they drove into this valley and along the dusty track
the old bus developed several squeaks and groans.
It showed no destination but it wasn’t going back
and it gave its final gasp not far from home.
So since they believed in Karma and they saw the ‘For Sale’ sign
they decided that fate had chosen this place.
They bought the farm and paddocks along with sheep and chooks
their journeys end was here – their steps they’d not retrace.
Maureen Clifford © 07/11
