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Poem

Sun is rising, birds are cooing,
              and I am up, up and doing,
the billy’s on, tea is brewing
          in younger days waking.
So I’d grab my torn gloves to wear
as old man Walmsley’s truck I’d hear
in the warm morning summer air
           on the road haymaking.

To load up the truck and pack her
                I was a lifter and stacker -
it was hot, it was hard yakka 
         from field to shed taking.
         But on every cut hill and dale
with each counted and lifted bale
      at day’s end we all drank an ale
           on the road haymaking.

From Kaukap’ home thru Dairy Flat
Percy’s charger purred like a cat
till Cock drops the clutch to the mat -
          his hands guilty shaking.
Reckless doing a hundred clicks
     it would be his ar-se Percy kicks,
the spider gears he had to fix
           on the road haymaking.

And that day on collision course
    with a load of baled hay and gorse
under the truck wheels fell a horse -
          its last breath forsaking.
       Sadly there was no place to hide
but in my shock I surely tried
      when at my trembling feet it died
           on the road haymaking.

We were fit and strong and mad keen,
young and foolhardly, just fifteen,
now with many years in between
     those early dawns breaking.
                  But I remember long ago
summers in Paremoremo
   when off on Walmsley’s truck I’d go
           on the road haymaking.


         Written: July 2016 


Pictured above: Valiant RT Charger

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