CLEARED TO GO
Posted: Fri Feb 10, 2012 10:35 am
CLEARED TO GO - Rewrite
They gathered for the fray at dawn whilst dew still wet the grass,
and morning mist still lingered on the hills.
So many folk were saddened by what now had come to pass.
A property sold up. Too many bills.
In rows the old machinery stood. Silenced now and quiet
Around them cried the winter winds shrill moan.
They waited for the Auctioneer, and bids that would buy it
at bargain basement prices without loan.
The crowd held many neighbours, also blow-ins quite unknown.
The city dealers out to make a kill,
who clustered like flies at the sales of livelihood and home.
All avid bidders in it for the thrill.
They poked and prodded and perused and passed by other things
of no interest at all to them today
Most making notes in diaries of goods they found interesting
and checked that wallets held enough to pay.
.
The wheat fields lay fallow, no feathering plumes of wheat in sight.
A field of dandelions reposed there now.
The paddocks were neglected, there was sign of recent blight
to show scant use had been made of the plough.
The house of cards was tumbling down, no smoke came from the flue.
A tea urn boiled; the tea spoons were laid out,
and mismatched plates held sandwiches, a fly buzzed as flies do.
Most people chatted on about the drought.
The auctioneer started his spiel and welcomed those that came;
laid down the basic rules in place that day,
advising payment was required by cash or by bank draft,
no personal cheques could be used to pay.
He stalked each row of goods just like the Pope on a mission.
self seeking sycophants trailed in his wake.
And from his mouth erupted educated emission.
A virtuoso sales pitch - no mistake.
The starling squadron wheeled and zoomed , as did a White-winged Chough.
Creek waters burbled on quite merrily.
A mother cat, with small kitten held tightly by the scruff ,
sought safety far away from the melee.
The mates of the bloke being sold up, felt the sorrow there.
So tangible that it bled from the walls.
Unfeeling buyers bid a pittance for table and chair,
likewise the hat stand once seen in the hall.
The rocking horse received only disinterested stares.
Generations of kids had ridden him.
But there was frenzied bidding and a great many loud calls
for sheets of used gal iron and rusted tin.
The buckets of nuts and bolts along with casings and tools
were seized upon by the avid collectors.
Old tractors and combines, the John Deere log-skidder with duals -
perused by machinery inspectors.
The old bloke, once the owner, gave a watermelon smile.
Put up a front, his eyes misty today.
And those who knew him thought his age for sure showed on his dial,
and all felt sad to see it end this way.
Bush blokes are tough as a rule, don’t give in to emotion
though each bloke knew today just how he felt.
Calloused hands clasped his shoulder, many grasped his work worn hands.
All feeling bad for how the cards were dealt.
The falling russet tinged leaves drifted downward on the road.
The last old battered Ute went ‘cross the grid.
One work worn old bloke sat, and from his eyes quiet tears flowed -
an outpour of emotion too long hid.
Serried ranks of machinery stood in the paddock, quiet
as wild wind wailed om Mani Padme hum.*
It was as if they were waiting on his final command
to stir them once more before leaving home.
*The om mantra is believed to be energizing, calming and healing.
CLEARED TO GO - original
They gathered at dawn all prepared for the fray
whilst the dew was still wet on the grass,
and the cold morning mist in the hollows still lay.
They regretted it had come to pass.
Most of them were neighbours and several were friends,
there were blow-ins from places unknown.
There were rows of machinery stolid and quiet.
Winter wind through the willows did moan.
The wheat fields lay fallow no feathering plumes,
just a field of gold dandelions now
bloomed in paddocks neglected, where tussocks and weeds
showed scant use of the discs of the plough.
The old house of cards now was tumbling down
and no wood smoke emerged from the flue.
The tea urn was boiling, the spoons were laid out
and a fly buzzed around as flies do.
The auctioneer started – welcomed all who came
and laid down the rules in place that day,
saying payment was required by cash or bank draft
but no personal cheques would he pay.
He stalked down the rows like the Pope on a mission
with believers trailing behind.
A virtuoso performance was given
Mercy none – the farm was out of time.
The starling squadron wheeled and zoomed through the heavens -
as peaceful a sight as you’d see;
and a cat, kitten held by the scruff of the neck
sought some safety far from the melee.
The burbling songs of the creek could be heard
between frenzied loud bidding and calls.
But the mates of the bloke who was being sold up
felt the sorrow that bled from the walls.
Unscrupulous buyers from cities and towns
bid a pittance for tables and chairs,
and the rocking horse four generations had used
received only disinterested stares.
The buckets of nuts and bolts, casings and tools
were seized up by the avid collectors,
whilst the tractors and combines were subjected to
perusal by machinery inspectors.
And the old bloke who owned the lot put up a front,
showing a watermelon smile.
But his old eyes were reddened and misty today
and his age showed for sure on his dial.
Bush blokes are a tough mob they don’t show emotion
though each bloke knew just how he felt.
Many hands clasped his shoulder, shook his work worn hands.
All felt bad for how the cards were dealt.
Falling leaves drifted down on the lost road
as the last battered Ute crossed the grid;
just one old work worn bloke sat, no words he spoke
but he cried the tears he’d long kept hid.
Serried ranks of machines stood there stolid and quiet
the wind wailed om Mani Padme hum*
‘Twas as if they awaited his final command
just once more before leaving their home.
Maureen Clifford © 02/12
*The om mantra is believed to be energizing, calming and healing.
They gathered for the fray at dawn whilst dew still wet the grass,
and morning mist still lingered on the hills.
So many folk were saddened by what now had come to pass.
A property sold up. Too many bills.
In rows the old machinery stood. Silenced now and quiet
Around them cried the winter winds shrill moan.
They waited for the Auctioneer, and bids that would buy it
at bargain basement prices without loan.
The crowd held many neighbours, also blow-ins quite unknown.
The city dealers out to make a kill,
who clustered like flies at the sales of livelihood and home.
All avid bidders in it for the thrill.
They poked and prodded and perused and passed by other things
of no interest at all to them today
Most making notes in diaries of goods they found interesting
and checked that wallets held enough to pay.
.
The wheat fields lay fallow, no feathering plumes of wheat in sight.
A field of dandelions reposed there now.
The paddocks were neglected, there was sign of recent blight
to show scant use had been made of the plough.
The house of cards was tumbling down, no smoke came from the flue.
A tea urn boiled; the tea spoons were laid out,
and mismatched plates held sandwiches, a fly buzzed as flies do.
Most people chatted on about the drought.
The auctioneer started his spiel and welcomed those that came;
laid down the basic rules in place that day,
advising payment was required by cash or by bank draft,
no personal cheques could be used to pay.
He stalked each row of goods just like the Pope on a mission.
self seeking sycophants trailed in his wake.
And from his mouth erupted educated emission.
A virtuoso sales pitch - no mistake.
The starling squadron wheeled and zoomed , as did a White-winged Chough.
Creek waters burbled on quite merrily.
A mother cat, with small kitten held tightly by the scruff ,
sought safety far away from the melee.
The mates of the bloke being sold up, felt the sorrow there.
So tangible that it bled from the walls.
Unfeeling buyers bid a pittance for table and chair,
likewise the hat stand once seen in the hall.
The rocking horse received only disinterested stares.
Generations of kids had ridden him.
But there was frenzied bidding and a great many loud calls
for sheets of used gal iron and rusted tin.
The buckets of nuts and bolts along with casings and tools
were seized upon by the avid collectors.
Old tractors and combines, the John Deere log-skidder with duals -
perused by machinery inspectors.
The old bloke, once the owner, gave a watermelon smile.
Put up a front, his eyes misty today.
And those who knew him thought his age for sure showed on his dial,
and all felt sad to see it end this way.
Bush blokes are tough as a rule, don’t give in to emotion
though each bloke knew today just how he felt.
Calloused hands clasped his shoulder, many grasped his work worn hands.
All feeling bad for how the cards were dealt.
The falling russet tinged leaves drifted downward on the road.
The last old battered Ute went ‘cross the grid.
One work worn old bloke sat, and from his eyes quiet tears flowed -
an outpour of emotion too long hid.
Serried ranks of machinery stood in the paddock, quiet
as wild wind wailed om Mani Padme hum.*
It was as if they were waiting on his final command
to stir them once more before leaving home.
*The om mantra is believed to be energizing, calming and healing.
CLEARED TO GO - original
They gathered at dawn all prepared for the fray
whilst the dew was still wet on the grass,
and the cold morning mist in the hollows still lay.
They regretted it had come to pass.
Most of them were neighbours and several were friends,
there were blow-ins from places unknown.
There were rows of machinery stolid and quiet.
Winter wind through the willows did moan.
The wheat fields lay fallow no feathering plumes,
just a field of gold dandelions now
bloomed in paddocks neglected, where tussocks and weeds
showed scant use of the discs of the plough.
The old house of cards now was tumbling down
and no wood smoke emerged from the flue.
The tea urn was boiling, the spoons were laid out
and a fly buzzed around as flies do.
The auctioneer started – welcomed all who came
and laid down the rules in place that day,
saying payment was required by cash or bank draft
but no personal cheques would he pay.
He stalked down the rows like the Pope on a mission
with believers trailing behind.
A virtuoso performance was given
Mercy none – the farm was out of time.
The starling squadron wheeled and zoomed through the heavens -
as peaceful a sight as you’d see;
and a cat, kitten held by the scruff of the neck
sought some safety far from the melee.
The burbling songs of the creek could be heard
between frenzied loud bidding and calls.
But the mates of the bloke who was being sold up
felt the sorrow that bled from the walls.
Unscrupulous buyers from cities and towns
bid a pittance for tables and chairs,
and the rocking horse four generations had used
received only disinterested stares.
The buckets of nuts and bolts, casings and tools
were seized up by the avid collectors,
whilst the tractors and combines were subjected to
perusal by machinery inspectors.
And the old bloke who owned the lot put up a front,
showing a watermelon smile.
But his old eyes were reddened and misty today
and his age showed for sure on his dial.
Bush blokes are a tough mob they don’t show emotion
though each bloke knew just how he felt.
Many hands clasped his shoulder, shook his work worn hands.
All felt bad for how the cards were dealt.
Falling leaves drifted down on the lost road
as the last battered Ute crossed the grid;
just one old work worn bloke sat, no words he spoke
but he cried the tears he’d long kept hid.
Serried ranks of machines stood there stolid and quiet
the wind wailed om Mani Padme hum*
‘Twas as if they awaited his final command
just once more before leaving their home.
Maureen Clifford © 02/12
*The om mantra is believed to be energizing, calming and healing.
That doesn't mean it is better ( whatever that might mean ) , only that I like it more.
