[ Scattered Through The '80s ]
The 50 halfway mark (the fool thinks he'll live for a hundred years) is just over the horizon and coming fast so he's decided to embrace Work. In the Literary sense. Because it has a simple purity. In the real world he’s always embraced Work. He's a Workingman by nature. He sees Work as a proud thing. Always has. That’s why he scabs up images of himself at his labours, keeps them handy, in case. In case he senses doubting noises. And hey, they’re good to look at. Give out warm rose-tint feelings.
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THE
CEMETERY
It
was a cold damp paddock
a
corner of some farmer's field
a
well-meaning donation to his church
a
hundred-odd years ago
the
story was you could only die in summer
in
winter the graves filled with water
the
coffins wouldn't sink
so they
gave up after about eight
left
it for a few generations
then
sold it back to the land
complete
with lonely headstones
all
bowed in some sort of disgrace
there
was Mary and her baby John
beloved
wife and son of Herbert
but
Herbert had the good sense
to
get buried somewhere else
Mary
was only eighteen
John
wasn't any age at all
and
Harold Xavier who was ninety three
and
didn't seem to belong to anyone
alongside
of three sisters
who
the old man with the scythe
harvested
with one cut
one
day a young man with a tractor
with
as much respect as is possible
with
a three point linkage
pulled
out all those cold stone sentinels
lined
them up along the fence
in
silent regimented watch
while
he ploughed that sad forgotten place
back
into a farmer's field
now
old Harold and Mary and those kids
help
grow tomatoes
T.R.E.
(1982)
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THE
DAIRY FARMER
worked
for a dairy farmer for a while
must've
been a summer and its autumn
back
when my crewcut head
was
filling to bursting with drives of life
along
with muscles and balls and dreamer's eyes
he
was a good man in his way
and
so was his wife
worked
like a pair of horses together
though
I bet she was all woman
when
the lights went out at nine
a
pair of refugees from russia's landgrabs
killed
a few communists though
before
giving the hated reds their estonian heartland
slept
in trees and lived on turnips and fat
picking
off convoys in a hit and run war
that
was passionately personal
then
the local RSL told him he couldn't join
because
his bullets had been made in germany
got
married in a camp in holland
gave
his bride an orange for a wedding present
and
couldn't even use their real names
latched
onto their old lady companion
somewhere
in those postwar running years
always
one step in front of the price on his head
turned
out she was head chef
for
the biggest hotel in all of the baltic
the
three of them got here via england
took
up the sharefarmers lot by the lakes
amid
the pelican peace and blackswan beauty
of
that calm and clear and coorong place
and
he worked hard and played little
and
me along with it
cows
in at five thirty
so
dark you found them by feel
sensing
their udderswollen stirrings
somewhere
out there on the clover flats
muscle-ache
long days with big feeds
the
old cook worked her bygone magic
on
the simplest of farm fare
scolded
me soundly for sitting on the table
she'd
brought only her oldcountry beliefs with her
but
they were as strong and true
as
the day her mother and her mother before her
had
passed them on down for the keeping
early
nights crashing into a lonely sleep
cemetery-still but for the plover's cry
somewhere
out there in the blackfella dark
dreams
of a young girl too far away
too
soon seven days a week five thirty again
wish
I'd stuck it out longer
but
too much life to be got on with
to
be burdened with sucking up to cows
twice
a day forever
it's just
that I didn't know then
that
life is always
where
you are
T.R.E.
(1983)
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PICKING
UP WORK
worked
for a lucerne farmer for a bit
I
was a restless nineteen and between real jobs
grabbing
what I could
lasted
about three bad months
the
lucerne farmer was an accomplished pain in the arse
full
of a strange seething violence
simmering
away behind a thin social facade
sullen
resentment of everything around him
especially
his four year old stepson
who
he psychologically battered with constant resolutions
looking
forward to that great day
the
kid was old enough to belt shit out of
for
things that totally escaped me
like
just being there
representing
some curse from his own childhood
my
offsider was middle-aged lonely Joe
he
pinched the truck one night
fully
loaded with tomorrows fresh lucerne
sneaked
off to the local dance
to
get lucky
which
I think he did
Joe
got the boot next day
but
he didn’t seem to mind
told
the boss he was just a bastard anyway
pulled
himself up to his full five foot two
and
said he was pissing off
back
to Pt Augusta or somewhere
anywhere
there aren't any red-faced pricks like you
I
liked Joe
I
wish I'd left with such style
T.R.E.
(1987)
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FARM
HAND PLOUGHING
it
was an old crawler tractor
its
yellow chipped and stained
a
long working life clanking in its tracks
seat
shiny from a thousand bums
the
punch of its youth long gone
the
plough was probably too big for a D2
twenty
four disc chamberlain
cut
deep into the sandy loam
straining
the diesel to its governor limit
on
the lap after long curve lap
of
that big and gentle rise and fall paddock
the
farm hand wasn't much more than a boy
eighteen
at most
yet
cocky with confidence
totally
in harmony with the ageing machine
and
the endless flowing scything earthturn
of
the silent following plough
he
sat skewed in the beatup seat
one
hand absently navigating
the
other arm slouched over the back
eyes
wandering slow and easy
sometimes
checking the depth of the soil cut
then
looking back to the birdbusy trail
gazing
a while on the long straight runs
far
out across the sandhilled coorong
dreaming
of shipwrecked beaches
and
writing their spiced and salty stories
endlessly
in his youngman's head
gradually
the farmhand and his ancient craft
complete
with his flutter of bridaltrain birds
ground
steadily on and over the stubbly horizon
taking
his honest noise with him
T.R.E.
(1988)
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