The
two-hour muster took six, when the old dog slipped his chain,
For a wild
and loyal moment he thought he was back working again.
His
memories took him back to those days when he dodged the bullock's heels
And how he
waited in smoke-filled camps for his share of campfire meals.
He puffed
and panted behind the riders, sounding like an old steam train,
But his
gleaming brown eyes show he's happy to be on a muster again.
His Cattle
Dog senses and courage kept him going when walking alone,
His working
days are now long gone, his black muzzle now turning grey,
And his
calloused pads cannot take the miles of the lonely droving way.
No longer
can his stiff, sore body hold its own on a brumby chase,
For he is
usually left tied to his kennel while the younger dogs take his place
But when
the sun draws over the dawning peaks, the riders and dogs get ready,
For today
the mountain-top ranges are to be mustered where rider and horse go steady.
The old dog
stays, doubled chained now, when the others head off down the track.
Yes, the
old dog whiles away the hours, waiting for them to come back.
(Frank
Yeats)
No comments:
Post a Comment