Life in the Country

Of Cattle

I treat them ever kind.

The first thought in my mind 

Is obvious and neat: 

To grow sale-worthy meat.

I confess a second

Motive, somewhat lower:

I rate cattle far more

Potent than a mower.   

Rural Theatre

The grass is high and green and lush,
The cattle plump and grazing free.
They gather sudden by the fence,
Sometimes sneezing, always snuffling 
(Like old men at morning’s rise), and 
Watch with total concentration
A working human being: me.

How to deal with such devotion 
And perpetuate contentment 
(Until the butcher takes them on)?
Add, perhaps, a florid flourish
As one performs the settled task?
Maybe a prance, a dance, would do? 
No way! Proud cattlemen, and true,
Are not bovine entertainers! 

The Farmer Betrayed

           

Binocular-glued, I’m watching

A kitten-size rabbit blithely

Grazing on a lush, sun-drenched lawn,

Heedless of raptors and foxes.

Ears, comically towering,

Spastically twitching, high above

Great bedroom-dark eyes and prudish

Wee lips, feverishly-munching.

Elegantly tawny body,

Rotund, furry-soft and (alien

Thought sly-slithering into pure

Vermin-loathing mind) so cuddly!

The Boy on the Vineyard Fence

A merry lunch;
Adults small-talk,
Animated.
Nobody heeds
As, young and small,
He wanders off,  
A city-boy
In the country:
Strange wire fences, 
Tempting to climb.

The yellow sign
Has no meaning
(Says outer wire
Is ‘hot’, to fend
Off kangaroo).
Clambers slimly
Up the inner
Wires to the top.
What a moment 
To tell to Dad!

Turns to go but  
Slips, falls on the 
Hotwire, jams hard
Against the post. 
Eight thousand volts,
At intervals, 
Jolt into him.
Still nobody  
Notices as 
He slowly dies.

An Open Invitation to

Certain Young Persons

Please visit our farm.

It has much to charm

Pleasant young people

Of real discernment.

We are gentle folk

Who never provoke

Anyone or creature

Entering our realm. 

We prize our blonde steers,

Pampering the dears

With fresh lawn-cuttings

To sweeten their day.

Wild things are favoured,

Constantly savoured,

Specially birds, from

Blue wrens to eagles.

But scaly and furred 

Are also preferred

(Unless big-eared or

Cold slithery long).

We’ve games you can play

Like football, croquet,

Boomerang-throwing, 

Kite-flying and cards. 

If you’re vigorous, 

There’s more rigorous

Boating and fishing

And steep slopes to climb.

So, visit our farm:

You’ll come to no harm

So long as you stick

To four simple rules.

Keep shoes on outdoors,

Don hat without pause; 

Don’t taunt the cattle,

But gush over views.

True, there’s more it takes

To be one who makes

The choosy guest-list

We keep at the farm.

A love of baked beans  

And frankfurters gleans

Credit, as does cheese

Sandwiches toasted.

Manners are vital: 

Good ones entitle 

Their owners to go

High up on the list.

But what really scores,

Opening all doors,

Is good nature, wit,

And a light spirit.

We know you’ve these traits

(They’ve earned you much praise),

So please, please visit

Us soon at the farm!

A Small Mercy

They say that in a day

A cormorant can eat

Up to three times its own

Weight in fish and yabbies.

One has dwelt on my fish-

Filled dam for many days. 

I draw some comfort from 

The fact it’s quite little. 

 

Sudden Beauty at Strath Creek

Dainty prancing ridge-down 

Against a sapphire sky

And a westering glow, 

Two riderless horses

Snow-white and dusky brown,

One after the other 

Like well-drilled show ponies

In theatrical mode. 

Not at All Like Subservient String

Danger’s in each coil 
Of farm fencing wire.  
Messing with it is  
Like messing with fire.

It will snarl and rear,  
If you stir its ire, 
Strike swift as a snake,
Bite almost as dire. 

So take care, beware,
Dear lady and squire,
Of any fence-line
That you may acquire. 

   

A Dry-spring Thought

2014

Oh, recall those gentle rains 
That once washed the hillsides green! 

  





 Where’s the Prince?
2015

On the first day of winter
(From my chair by the shed-door,
Stubby in warm-glovèd hand) 
I looked so fond on my land.

Cobalt-blue sky dotted with
Jostling cottonwool cloudlings;
Lettuce-green hillside bedecked
With grazing black and brown steers.  

Forest of lofty blue-gums, 
Long ago planted in hope,
Now breeze-gentled and dancing 
As in a graceful gavotte.

Magpies fossick, ravens swoop,   
Wagtails fuss, wrens flit below -
But, oh, no show of beloved 
Wintry prince, the Flame Robin! 

 

November in Murrindindi

2017

How hasty in this wide land
Does timid spring retreat once 
Bold summer stakes its claim.  

In just one sudden day, grass 
On topmost heights, dusty green 
At morn, is gold by even.

After, gold creeps steady down,
Hesitating only at 
Lusher lower paddocks.   

Too soon gold o’erwhelms all green; 
And begins the time when eyes   
Daily scan blue skies for smoke.   

  





















Playing Games with Cattle
2018 
      
A herd of calf-less, old-lag cows  
(We know each other pretty well)
Think it time for greener goodies,  
So cluster at a guarding gate.  

I approach on foot; their great dark
Unblinking eyes all swivel my 
Way; a ragged mooing chorus
Informs me of their heart’s desire.      

I claim the right of passage:   
They jostle gently, willingly     
Parting like a heaving black sea.   
Their pleas crescendo as I pass.    

At the gate, I fumble the chain; 
The mooing dwindles when the gate 
Swings, but the breathing comes harsher, 
Faster – until I step aside. 

In total silence, the phalanx   
Of massive bodies lunges - and 
Promptly wedges between rigid
Gate-posts like a cork in a bottle!  

They struggle for a comical 
Moment before one pops out and 
The rest froth after, some prancing,  
Some purring like guttural cats.  

Then suddenly, it’s game over! 
Tender new grass tips heads downward, 
Grasping lips and grinding teeth go 
Back to work: placid rules once more. 

November in Murrindindi

2019

How speedy in this wide land 
Does jaunty Spring give way 
To Summer’s brooding menace!   

Comes a fateful sun-filled day   
That turns grass on upper slopes  
From dusty green to tawny. 

From there tawny daily downward 
Creeps until at last it quells  
The lowest, lushest paddocks. 

Then sly whiffs of smoke and flame 
Secretly slink through minds unblessed    
By blinkered urban living. 

Why the Eagles as Well?

2020

Not so long ago, eagles flew 

Frequent and often in numbers 

Above my Murrindindi haven.

Grandly, in lordly silence, they

Soared over paddocks wreathed in clouds 

Of droning, wretched wee bush-flies. 

Today skies and paddocks are empty.

Imported dung beetles have done

For the flies, and none sheds a tear.

But the absence of the eagles

Is both a mystery and a

Source of deep and lasting sadness.

      

A Murderous Difference

2020

In the town killing is small beer: 

Splatter a fly, squash a spider,  

Spray a few ants, put down a pet;

And that’s about it (people apart!). 

In the country, it’s open war -   

Legal against rodents, rabbits,

And foxes; illegal against  

Snakes and undermining wombats. 

Add to this mercy shootings of  

Cattle and sheep – all apart from

The mutual killings of birds and

Animals, also for good cause.