Gold Fever
Posted: Wed Sep 10, 2014 8:16 pm
GOLD FEVER
This is a poem I started writing years ago, it was pretty rough and had been more or less abandoned. Mainly because I felt that unless you were a prospector it might not make much sense.
It’s based on a typical day for a gold prospector who earns his living using a metal Detector and gridding for hours on end. Some would find this pretty boring but it can pay a handsome reward for those who persist. We found a lot of gold in the early days this way and still do lots of it when we get onto a patch. I use a length of motor bike chain attached to some rope and drag that behind me. You just follow the last line and work an area of a little under a meter out from that line, the new line you’re making is the boundary of your completed work, this way if you’re careful you shouldn’t miss much.
There’s not just the prospect of finding gold, but also the magnificence of some of that country you work in, and of course a feeling of complete freedom that’s hard to find anywhere else.
GOLD FEVER 4-4-2007
A brooding silence settles out across the quartz strewn plain,
then comes the faintest tinkling of a snaking length of chain.
The searching coil swings smoothly guided by an expert hand,
to seek out hidden treasures that may lie beneath this land.
His keen eyes scan the surface for the slightest glint of gold,
and trained ears listen hopefully for signals faint or bold.
A passing Willy Willy has disturbed the trees nearby,
while mulga stand like sentinels, as fleecy clouds drift by.
The land is dry and thirsty showing early signs of drought,
with only salt and blue-bush left to see the summer out.
The nearby mill is silent with no wind to move a vane,
its water tank near empty now until there’s breeze again.
The searcher stops to mop his brow and brush away a fly,
as midday heat beats down on him out of a cloudless sky.
He sips some tepid water, notes his bottles getting low,
with many hours of daylight left before it’s time to go.
He hitches up his gear and soon is searching once again,
accompanied by jingles from his length of gridding chain.
He daydreams of the big one that he’s sure to find one day,
it’s somewhere in this wilderness, perhaps not far away.
Then thinks about the vastness of this harsh and ancient land,
of endless plains and weathered hills and miles of blood red sand.
And he can see such beauty here where others may see none
and knows the country’s heart lies near, and has since time begun.
Out here he’s found contentment, for he loves this life outback,
and revels in the freedom now well off the beaten track,
away from city hassles that you find in urban life
and far from all temptations that can land a bloke in strife.
The hours are long and tiring but the lifestyle suits him well,
he’s found his niche in life out bush as anyone can tell.
He stops to dig a signal and his pulse begins to race
and with the glint of colour, comes a smile now to his face.
His hand begins to tremble as he tries to guess its weight;
ten grams or so he’s hoping, but perhaps it’s only eight.
There’s new found spring now in his step when starting off once more;
his senses are fine tuned again to seek more golden ore.
His mind though soon has wandered as it often does out here.
while looking for some hopeful sign that nuggets may lie near.
He sees the heat haze rising which distorts the land about,
and views mirages shrinking as they slowly peter out.
Then hears the cries of crows and sees an eagle soaring high,
while circling on a thermal in the turquoise tinted sky.
As shadows start to lengthen and the heat begins to ease,
a stirring in the branches then suggests an early breeze.
There’s tortured sounds of metal as the mill begins to spin,
and stock are moving closer as the water dribbles in.
He’s feeling somewhat weary, but his heart is full of cheer,
there’s not too long to go before he sips an ice-cold beer.
With dusk then creeping in, he stops and views the work he’s done,
eight hours of careful searching here and little gold’s been won.
His water bottle’s empty and his limbs begin to cramp,
it’s time to get his gear and start the long trek back to camp.
His thoughts are on the next day as he walks in fading light,
and hopes to beat the darkness of the fast approaching night.
-----------
© T.E.Piggott
This is a poem I started writing years ago, it was pretty rough and had been more or less abandoned. Mainly because I felt that unless you were a prospector it might not make much sense.
It’s based on a typical day for a gold prospector who earns his living using a metal Detector and gridding for hours on end. Some would find this pretty boring but it can pay a handsome reward for those who persist. We found a lot of gold in the early days this way and still do lots of it when we get onto a patch. I use a length of motor bike chain attached to some rope and drag that behind me. You just follow the last line and work an area of a little under a meter out from that line, the new line you’re making is the boundary of your completed work, this way if you’re careful you shouldn’t miss much.
There’s not just the prospect of finding gold, but also the magnificence of some of that country you work in, and of course a feeling of complete freedom that’s hard to find anywhere else.
GOLD FEVER 4-4-2007
A brooding silence settles out across the quartz strewn plain,
then comes the faintest tinkling of a snaking length of chain.
The searching coil swings smoothly guided by an expert hand,
to seek out hidden treasures that may lie beneath this land.
His keen eyes scan the surface for the slightest glint of gold,
and trained ears listen hopefully for signals faint or bold.
A passing Willy Willy has disturbed the trees nearby,
while mulga stand like sentinels, as fleecy clouds drift by.
The land is dry and thirsty showing early signs of drought,
with only salt and blue-bush left to see the summer out.
The nearby mill is silent with no wind to move a vane,
its water tank near empty now until there’s breeze again.
The searcher stops to mop his brow and brush away a fly,
as midday heat beats down on him out of a cloudless sky.
He sips some tepid water, notes his bottles getting low,
with many hours of daylight left before it’s time to go.
He hitches up his gear and soon is searching once again,
accompanied by jingles from his length of gridding chain.
He daydreams of the big one that he’s sure to find one day,
it’s somewhere in this wilderness, perhaps not far away.
Then thinks about the vastness of this harsh and ancient land,
of endless plains and weathered hills and miles of blood red sand.
And he can see such beauty here where others may see none
and knows the country’s heart lies near, and has since time begun.
Out here he’s found contentment, for he loves this life outback,
and revels in the freedom now well off the beaten track,
away from city hassles that you find in urban life
and far from all temptations that can land a bloke in strife.
The hours are long and tiring but the lifestyle suits him well,
he’s found his niche in life out bush as anyone can tell.
He stops to dig a signal and his pulse begins to race
and with the glint of colour, comes a smile now to his face.
His hand begins to tremble as he tries to guess its weight;
ten grams or so he’s hoping, but perhaps it’s only eight.
There’s new found spring now in his step when starting off once more;
his senses are fine tuned again to seek more golden ore.
His mind though soon has wandered as it often does out here.
while looking for some hopeful sign that nuggets may lie near.
He sees the heat haze rising which distorts the land about,
and views mirages shrinking as they slowly peter out.
Then hears the cries of crows and sees an eagle soaring high,
while circling on a thermal in the turquoise tinted sky.
As shadows start to lengthen and the heat begins to ease,
a stirring in the branches then suggests an early breeze.
There’s tortured sounds of metal as the mill begins to spin,
and stock are moving closer as the water dribbles in.
He’s feeling somewhat weary, but his heart is full of cheer,
there’s not too long to go before he sips an ice-cold beer.
With dusk then creeping in, he stops and views the work he’s done,
eight hours of careful searching here and little gold’s been won.
His water bottle’s empty and his limbs begin to cramp,
it’s time to get his gear and start the long trek back to camp.
His thoughts are on the next day as he walks in fading light,
and hopes to beat the darkness of the fast approaching night.
-----------
© T.E.Piggott
