On the Road Haymaking
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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
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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