HIS DOG SAT ON THE TUCKER BOX
Posted: Tue Oct 25, 2011 7:12 am
HIS DOG SAT ON THE TUCKER BOX.
He drove a beat up feral Ute, with room in back for bike and boots,
a coil of wire and strainers too, a shovel, spade, a rope or two
Old water bag, tools and wire cutters, a rusted piece of old iron gutter.
A bale of hay and some lick blocks, and one dog on the tucker box.
She lurched and skidded, went through gears, had been a paddock car for years.
No roadworthy would she be given, by all and sundry she was driven.
The old roof leaked when it was raining, but nobody was heard complaining.
Still drier in than it was out, and this despite the endless drought.
Mechanical care was null and void, her bodywork was quite destroyed.
The tailgate rattled, banged and clattered, not that it really seemed to matter.
The sheep all knew that she was coming, and hungry sheep will all come running,
now devoid of their woolen locks. They knew the dog on the tucker box.
Through blazing sun and pouring rain, to the old Ute 'twas all the same.
On colder mornings she would stutter, you'd hear the motor shake and mutter,
and it would run a little rough, but life out here is mighty tough.
Then it would catch and off she'd rattle, another day of farming battle.
The Ute was tough, likewise the man...the Ute the colour of his tan.
A dusty shade of reddy brown, lighter on lines where he did frown.
He worked out in the blazing sun, running wires one by one,
up hillsides covered in traprock - Buster sat on the tucker box.
Till finally as lunchtime neared, he sought the shade and a cold beer.
Wiped at the sweat on neck and brow, and idly watched a grazing cow
who was perhaps a trifle poor, some decent rain the only cure.
But of that happening he had doubt, the land so long had gone without.
He poked the old dog with his boot, told him to get down from the Ute
and from the esky took a sanger, and for his mate a cold cooked banger.
Together they shared the repast, finished each crumb down to the last
Stowed gear and tools, work boots and socks, the dog climbed on the tucker box.
He turned the key, the motor fired. It always did what was required.
The wheels bit hard, the gravel spun, they headed on the homeward run
down the dirt track towards the creek, he'd bring the grader up next week
and try and smooth it out a bit, 'twas pretty crook he did admit.
He checked the pig traps, nothing there...the stench of offal filled the air.
The pigs were giving the lambs hell and killing his profits as well.
Eagles and hawk all took their share and bloody crows were everywhere.
He heard the sharp bark of a fox. The dog stayed on the tucker box.
Maureen Clifford ©
He drove a beat up feral Ute, with room in back for bike and boots,
a coil of wire and strainers too, a shovel, spade, a rope or two
Old water bag, tools and wire cutters, a rusted piece of old iron gutter.
A bale of hay and some lick blocks, and one dog on the tucker box.
She lurched and skidded, went through gears, had been a paddock car for years.
No roadworthy would she be given, by all and sundry she was driven.
The old roof leaked when it was raining, but nobody was heard complaining.
Still drier in than it was out, and this despite the endless drought.
Mechanical care was null and void, her bodywork was quite destroyed.
The tailgate rattled, banged and clattered, not that it really seemed to matter.
The sheep all knew that she was coming, and hungry sheep will all come running,
now devoid of their woolen locks. They knew the dog on the tucker box.
Through blazing sun and pouring rain, to the old Ute 'twas all the same.
On colder mornings she would stutter, you'd hear the motor shake and mutter,
and it would run a little rough, but life out here is mighty tough.
Then it would catch and off she'd rattle, another day of farming battle.
The Ute was tough, likewise the man...the Ute the colour of his tan.
A dusty shade of reddy brown, lighter on lines where he did frown.
He worked out in the blazing sun, running wires one by one,
up hillsides covered in traprock - Buster sat on the tucker box.
Till finally as lunchtime neared, he sought the shade and a cold beer.
Wiped at the sweat on neck and brow, and idly watched a grazing cow
who was perhaps a trifle poor, some decent rain the only cure.
But of that happening he had doubt, the land so long had gone without.
He poked the old dog with his boot, told him to get down from the Ute
and from the esky took a sanger, and for his mate a cold cooked banger.
Together they shared the repast, finished each crumb down to the last
Stowed gear and tools, work boots and socks, the dog climbed on the tucker box.
He turned the key, the motor fired. It always did what was required.
The wheels bit hard, the gravel spun, they headed on the homeward run
down the dirt track towards the creek, he'd bring the grader up next week
and try and smooth it out a bit, 'twas pretty crook he did admit.
He checked the pig traps, nothing there...the stench of offal filled the air.
The pigs were giving the lambs hell and killing his profits as well.
Eagles and hawk all took their share and bloody crows were everywhere.
He heard the sharp bark of a fox. The dog stayed on the tucker box.
Maureen Clifford ©
not the Nissan