DRYBLOWING FOR GOLD
Posted: Sun Aug 05, 2012 1:04 pm
This one tells the other side of what Ross's poem was all about.
As it seemed a timely opportunity I've hastened to finish it.
Dryblowing is filthy job and extremely destructive on the environment,
even though you have to rehabilitate the areas you work.
But it's small bickies to what the big mining companies do.
DRYBLOWING FOR GOLD
The engine roars; there’s crashing gears; an insult to a bushman’s ears,
gone is the peaceful life he’d known of solitude and peace of mind.
He struggles on as miner’s must surrounded here by clouds of dust,
but curses his stupidity, regardless of what he may find.
Tormented now as hours crawl by, he shakes his head and wonders why
he’d left behind a life he loved; hoodwinked by stories he’d been told.
Before he’d found enough each day to cover cost and pay his way,
though dreamt of course he’d hit it big; but that’s the way it is with gold.
This chance appeared too good to miss; Dame Fortune seemed to blow a kiss
and hope had warmed within his breast; perhaps at last he’d live his dream.
Remaining doubts had quickly died for Lady Luck was by his side
and surely this would be his chance. But things aren’t always as they seem.
He daydreams that he’s free again to roam throughout the mulga plain
and clamber over hills of quartz with blessed silence all around.
The dream soon ends in clouds of dust; the loader strains with shove and thrust;
it moans and groans and toils away while ripping up the rich red ground.
The sun beats down; it’s raining dirt that turns to mud on sweat stained shirt,
this man made hell surrounds him now and scars the earth for years to come.
The trees that once were lush and green are dusted brown in this new scene,
that brings a sense of shame to him although it never worries some.
At last the sun is sinking low, the time has come to stop and go
down to the mill with nerves on edge, to separate the sands and gold.
He washes dirt in sieves of steel then feeds the slurry to the wheel,
and hopes for gold to spiral up; success or not will soon be told.
Spellbound he sees the grains of gold now separate so bright and bold
and spiral up the turning wheel and soon excitement stirs again.
It glistens in the setting sun, a vision from what myths are spun;
the sight of gold since time began has touched the hearts of mining men.
This gold will bring a modest sum and surely there’ll be more to come,
perhaps this lark is not so bad; who knows how much he still may find?
He tries to guess how much he’s found or what’s lays hidden in his ground;
the noisy motors dust and grime, have for the moment slipped his mind.
******
© T.E. Piggott
As it seemed a timely opportunity I've hastened to finish it.
Dryblowing is filthy job and extremely destructive on the environment,
even though you have to rehabilitate the areas you work.
But it's small bickies to what the big mining companies do.
DRYBLOWING FOR GOLD
The engine roars; there’s crashing gears; an insult to a bushman’s ears,
gone is the peaceful life he’d known of solitude and peace of mind.
He struggles on as miner’s must surrounded here by clouds of dust,
but curses his stupidity, regardless of what he may find.
Tormented now as hours crawl by, he shakes his head and wonders why
he’d left behind a life he loved; hoodwinked by stories he’d been told.
Before he’d found enough each day to cover cost and pay his way,
though dreamt of course he’d hit it big; but that’s the way it is with gold.
This chance appeared too good to miss; Dame Fortune seemed to blow a kiss
and hope had warmed within his breast; perhaps at last he’d live his dream.
Remaining doubts had quickly died for Lady Luck was by his side
and surely this would be his chance. But things aren’t always as they seem.
He daydreams that he’s free again to roam throughout the mulga plain
and clamber over hills of quartz with blessed silence all around.
The dream soon ends in clouds of dust; the loader strains with shove and thrust;
it moans and groans and toils away while ripping up the rich red ground.
The sun beats down; it’s raining dirt that turns to mud on sweat stained shirt,
this man made hell surrounds him now and scars the earth for years to come.
The trees that once were lush and green are dusted brown in this new scene,
that brings a sense of shame to him although it never worries some.
At last the sun is sinking low, the time has come to stop and go
down to the mill with nerves on edge, to separate the sands and gold.
He washes dirt in sieves of steel then feeds the slurry to the wheel,
and hopes for gold to spiral up; success or not will soon be told.
Spellbound he sees the grains of gold now separate so bright and bold
and spiral up the turning wheel and soon excitement stirs again.
It glistens in the setting sun, a vision from what myths are spun;
the sight of gold since time began has touched the hearts of mining men.
This gold will bring a modest sum and surely there’ll be more to come,
perhaps this lark is not so bad; who knows how much he still may find?
He tries to guess how much he’s found or what’s lays hidden in his ground;
the noisy motors dust and grime, have for the moment slipped his mind.
******
© T.E. Piggott
