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October 27, 2014

Couldn’t Make It

Til he couldn’t make it,
in the saddle or buggy seat,
when creakin’ limbs no longer climbed,
wind mills too much a feat

And cattle strayed too far afield,
on strings of wet clay pans
and bore their calves out on crown land
or poddy dodgers lease rebrand.

As time ran out on drifting sand,
riffled round stock troughs ‘n’ mills
and markets came and slid sideways,
to come ‘n’ go again

someday and life rolled on as wind mills clanked,
missed fan blades make toothless grins,
flogged round lopside,
fan tail face into the wind.

Cyclonic rains wash on their course
and flood the hinterland,
overflowing watersheds, creeks flow bankers from inland,
spreading out a muddy stain on swell and sea green grass,
lush growth on livestock drowned in flood,
sailing past in clouds of flies swarm there long dead stinking repast.

Around creek bend ‘n’ sand bank swirl,
beach the carcass, on the bank

Flies hoe in harder on their task
as wild dogs slink in
from the bush tearing lumps of rotten beef,
carrion crow n eagle land,
pecking, tearing where they can.

Animal parts drift off the bank accompanied by a swarm of flies,
downriver past a toothless grin
from windmills slowly turning blades,
fan tails jerking straight upwind.

‘Til sunset slowly way out west
‘n’ flies retire off in the night
and slowly now the carcass floats,
off the bank down in midstream,
minus bits gone off before
to fertilise the sea green floor
and market gardens down the coast

As years ‘n’ seasons head their course,
slow muddy stains spread out at sea.

If you like my poems . . .

The Ute by john taylor
Consider buyin’ my yarn “The Ute”
Less than 5 bucks for Kindle.

Check it out on Amazon Kindle.


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