ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

The Price of Love
Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet


She had seen a lot of sadness in her eighteen years of life
and had lost a lot of people, worn away with toil and strife,
but she had a love of country, ‘twas the place that she belonged
as a young child she’d discovered it was harsh – but she was strong
and she knew she must work with it – or ‘twould burn her before long.
But this country was the land and place she loved.

At the moment there before her were the desolate bare plains
dry and dusty, parched and thirsty, quite devoid of summer rains.
‘neath the Mulga cattle slumbered, some were now too weak to rise
and hand feeding would not save them now no matter how she tried.
Taunting clouds on the horizon sat as if to tantalize
this dry country – these red plains she dearly loved.

This girl was a farmer’s daughter – she was attuned to the land
and to her drought was no stranger – unlike surf and golden sand.
For she’d never had a holiday nor had the urge to roam
her life destined to these acres and this place that she called home
and she had set out this morning with her rifle and her roan
to deliver coup de grace to those she loved.

And her hand was firm and steady though her eyes were filled with tears
and her rifle cracked again, again, again – as she shot steers
that were walking skeletons with skin stretched tight across their hips
and most of them she knew and loved, she had to come to grips
for the order had been given – words squeezed from her Father’s lips.
”We must cull them as a final act of love.”

And were it to rain tomorrow, for those weakened ‘twas to late
they would mire, bog and flounder – she could not make that their fate,
so she slowly walked the paddock, loaded shells into the breech,
took sure aim and made a kill shot. She was quite devoid of speech.
Every shots reverberation saw Corella’s fly and screech.
She had paid her dues in sadness for her love.

Not much room for sentimentality on the land Maureen. The Australian poet, the late Philip Hodgins wrote a poem called " Shooting the Dogs " I think you would find that very harrowing.

I would Neville - one of our old neighbours did that to his working dogs when he sold and then threw their carcasses in the pig traps - our shearer came across them. That still upsets me today