ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

THE LONG DUSTY ROAD

He sat there on his swag that day a dog crouched by his side,
the two were looking weary, though I sensed they both had pride.
He rested in the shade out by a group of gimlet trees,
his waterbag was hanging from a branch to catch the breeze.

I watched him from a bench outside a small town country Inn
and couldn’t help but notice he was looking gaunt and thin.
He’d clamber to his feet each time a station bloke went by
and asked about some work here; he’d give anything a try.

But all would curtly shake their head with nothing more to say
and leave the old bloke standing there and headed on their way.
He’d nod his understanding, with a hint of old world grace,
then sit and pat his dog, though disappointment lined his face.

I felt a sense of sadness then while watching this old bloke,
now down on luck and past his best and no doubt stony broke.
For I’d been down that path myself and knew the feeling well,
but I was young back then – yet there are stories I could tell.

I’d known some others just like him, who’d stayed out bush too long,
they’d earn a cheque then blow it and then have to move along.
Gun shearers or good stockmen once, and top blokes at their game,
reduced to odd job men these days, which seems to me a shame.

They’d travel many miles at times just looking for a job,
determined to keep going, while they still could earn a bob.
Too proud to put their hand out for the pension or the dole,
they’d tramp the dusty roads to keep some tucker in the bowl.

It soon became apparent that there were no jobs around,
he’d have to keep on moving if some work was to be found.
A truckie promised him a lift, in case he needed one;
he’d leave there in an hour or two, soon as his work was done.

I bought a couple of stubbies and crossed to where he sat,
his old dog growled protectively till silenced by a pat.
I offered him a beer, to wash the dust down from the track,
“I’d love one mate” he nodded “but I couldn’t shout you back.”

I told him not to worry; it’s my turn to shout today
and anyway, who’s keeping score, that’s not the Aussie way.
We chatted for awhile about the drought that gripped the state
and how this country suffered here, the way it had of late.

I offered him another beer; he smiled but shook his head;
then reaching for his waterbag he sipped from that instead.
He poured some in a tin then, as he gave his dog a pat,
For these old blokes sure love their mates, there is no doubt of that.

The truckie was about to leave; I helped him load his gear;
he turned around and shook my hand and thanked me for the beer.
I watched the truck then disappear into a cloud of dust
and thought of hardships he would face, as such old timers must.

*****


© T.E.Piggott

That's really lovely Terry. You tell a story and paint a picture of the old bloke. Much enjoyed.

Heather

Thanks Terry old mate

bill Williams the old battler

Thanks Heather and Bill

Thought it was about time i posted something

Terry

Beautiful words Terry

I agree - this is a wonderful poem Terry. I really enjoyed this story with its poignancy and vivid imagery.

Great poem, Terry.

I came across an old bloke and his dog just the other day, who could easily have been the subject of your poem.

Cheers

Allan

I

Great write Terry


Have a listen to Slim Dusty singing " Where Country Is "

Bob

Thanks Maureen, Katherine, Alan and Bob

That's my favourite Slim Dusty song Bob, and thinking about it I see what you mean.

Cheers Terry

I was thinking about that song Bob, so searched around and found it again – Great song

Speaking of the poem, I actually knew old blokes like that still trying to scratch out a living.
Some would have a camp in the middle of nowhere on the goldfields, still battling on without two, two bobs to rub together as they used to say.
A couple I knew refused to get the pension, a sort of pride I suppose you’d say.
Not many left like that today I reckon – These great old Aussie characters are sadly almost a thing of the past.
The worrying thing is that we’re now the old blokes – but not quite as colourerful.