OUT BEHIND THE SHED
Posted: Wed Mar 13, 2013 6:15 pm
Behind the shed at our place was a huge and wired in pen
divided into three parts, one for dogs and lambs and hen.
Encased in sturdy wire mesh and almost eight foot high.
In the corner a huge prickly pear reached upwards to the sky.
The chooks reposed in humpies made from worn out water tanks,
deposited their eggs in plastic drums to show their thanks.
The drums had once held printers ink but now they held soft straw,
we were master recyclers, and chooks don’t mind that’s sure.
Their roost was a five post bull bar that now was termed illegal
They sheltered underneath it at the first glimpse of an eagle.
I wondered if to hypothermia my chooks would be lost,
for the metal of that bullbar was oft’ frozen by the frost.
The lamb pen had a hole through which the little lambs could crawl
to get a feed of fresh green grass, a treat for one and all.
They never ate the peas or beans, but all seemed to like peach.
The windfalls spoil. Those on the tree were quite beyond their reach.
Their humpy made of flitches that were cast offs from the mill,
tied with Cobb and Co twitches – fencing wire fitted the bill
to join them all together as farmers had done for years.
It was cheap and it worked well enough – our lambs, they had no fears.
The dog pen was much sturdier for five dogs were within.
A pit-bull, blue, kelpie and collie , one staghoundy thing.
That’s Samantha – she was pony sized, a wolfhound staghound cross
who despite her overwhelming size , was never ever boss.
Anushka was a terror, a Houdini with a fence.
Noosh hated being locked in anywhere. In her defence
she was a working dog and never one to miss a muster
but sometimes she must stay at home, with Caddy, Jess and Buster.
So that’s what was behind our shed, plus Bulldozer and Ute,
my old end loader, Elle the yellow peril – such a brute.
The Lucas Mill, the silo and the grain bins are there still.
The thing dearest though to my heart. The Southern Cross windmill.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11 edited 03/13
divided into three parts, one for dogs and lambs and hen.
Encased in sturdy wire mesh and almost eight foot high.
In the corner a huge prickly pear reached upwards to the sky.
The chooks reposed in humpies made from worn out water tanks,
deposited their eggs in plastic drums to show their thanks.
The drums had once held printers ink but now they held soft straw,
we were master recyclers, and chooks don’t mind that’s sure.
Their roost was a five post bull bar that now was termed illegal
They sheltered underneath it at the first glimpse of an eagle.
I wondered if to hypothermia my chooks would be lost,
for the metal of that bullbar was oft’ frozen by the frost.
The lamb pen had a hole through which the little lambs could crawl
to get a feed of fresh green grass, a treat for one and all.
They never ate the peas or beans, but all seemed to like peach.
The windfalls spoil. Those on the tree were quite beyond their reach.
Their humpy made of flitches that were cast offs from the mill,
tied with Cobb and Co twitches – fencing wire fitted the bill
to join them all together as farmers had done for years.
It was cheap and it worked well enough – our lambs, they had no fears.
The dog pen was much sturdier for five dogs were within.
A pit-bull, blue, kelpie and collie , one staghoundy thing.
That’s Samantha – she was pony sized, a wolfhound staghound cross
who despite her overwhelming size , was never ever boss.
Anushka was a terror, a Houdini with a fence.
Noosh hated being locked in anywhere. In her defence
she was a working dog and never one to miss a muster
but sometimes she must stay at home, with Caddy, Jess and Buster.
So that’s what was behind our shed, plus Bulldozer and Ute,
my old end loader, Elle the yellow peril – such a brute.
The Lucas Mill, the silo and the grain bins are there still.
The thing dearest though to my heart. The Southern Cross windmill.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11 edited 03/13
