Charlie

[alongtimegone]

I picked up a first in the emerging poet section of the Boyup Brook Competition in 2013 with this poem, but I don't think I posted it on the forum. So being too lazy to write or just poetically bankrupt, I've dug into the recent past and pulled out Charlie. Too windy to get out on the water so this is next best.

Charlie

It was some time ‘bout mid fifties, give or take a year or two
when Charlie came down from the bush without a bloody clue,
‘bout where he’d go to find a job, or some place he could stay,
but undaunted, oozing confidence he travelled night and day.

Finally found his way to Redcliffe, down there by the foam,
where a lot of dinkum fishermen had made the bay their home.
He met a few while drinking at the local R.S.L.
and he listened in with wonder to the stories that they’d tell,

of tackle testing Cobia, of Amberjacks and Macks,
of ratchet screaming tuskies, of getting slammed by Jacks.
“That’s nothing. Let me tell ya.” the bar heard Charlie shout.
“Bet no one here can match me, if ya game to take me out.

I’ve fished the western rivers and friends I tell no lie.
No man has done it better. I fished the buggers dry.”
Now the Redcliffe boys were known sometimes to stretch the truth a bit,
about the size of what they’d caught and how the big ones hit,

but they reckoned Charlie’s bragging was more than they could take,
so with knowing winks they all agreed he’d made a big mistake.
They said “OK mate … join us. We’re going out tonight.
It’s blowing pretty hard but not to worry … you’ll be right.

Here, get a few more down ya. Don’t want you feeling queer.
If swell is up there’s nothing beats a belly full of beer.”
They headed out towards the cape. The wind was on the rise.
The troughs were deep. The crests were tossing foam up to the skies.

The Redcliffe boys were laughing. Knocking down their beer and rum
and calling out “Hey Charlie! Aren’t you glad now that you’ve come.”
But not a word did Charlie speak, nor even make a fuss.
So keen to find the toilet and ride that porcelain bus.

When finally they turned the boat and made their way to land,
Charlie somehow found the strength to shake each outstretched hand.
He said “Wish I could stay awhile, but just to let you know,
I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ve got a-ways to go.”

So still some time mid fifties, give or take a year or two,
Charlie headed west to homeland, to Galah and Cockatoo.
To sandy outback rivers, to stringy bark and gum,
to grassy plains and cloudless skies, the land from whence he’d come.

And know what? You might see him
if perchance you’re passing by.
Charlie … from the bush …
still out there ... fishing rivers dry.

Wazza 2013

Happy Nu Year everybody.

[Heather]

Love it Wazza. Happy New Year and may all your fish be big ones!

Heather

[alongtimegone]

Thank you Heather.