"droving" poems
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
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I arise to thee, beautiful pilgrim
Returning to the ***** of Winter,
Droving forth the winds once full of whims,
But now bound to thy will- oh Enchanter
Of the first dancing lights- by the promised
Arrival of the new Gods of the sky.
You wear the morning light- Remised
Of the nascent azure and its red Eye -
Like a veil, in mourning of the silence.
The kings and queens of burning summer,
The din of the humans’ blissful pretense,
Will soon seek the night like moths a taper
And tributaries of parched skin will be paid
To the pest that walks, the old timekeeper
And the shaft flies and leaves things unsaid.
Away! Hot and languishing despair
For I arise to dreams of the sprites of Winter,
And the light kisses my skin like sweet Death,
Oh! Sweet, sweet ghost of coldness, here, my wreath!
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
one final cup of chamomile tea then to bed,
to bed, to lie drenched in sweat.
until the heat breaks
and the cool change sneaks on through.
one last sip to calm my mind.
so i can prepare
to itemize,
those **** pesky sheep.
i know them all by name now,
by dawn, i will know where they are going on their annual holidays.
rinse the cup and go to bed,
at least,
my foolish shepardess, my restless, droving, roving mind.
you will give you head,
a place to rest,
while you go on,
this wooly,
sheep finding fact fest.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC