Swagman

The flies like molasses clinging firmly to his back, as aimlessly he ambled along the dry dusty track. Like a wave of the ocean the flies would swarm to his face, but were expertly dispatched with his gum branch mace. A battered farm ute lurches forward to a stop, "Give ya lift inta town mate, in the back ya can hop". "Na me legs are work'n fine, they're not painted on With a shake of the head, put in gear and the ute was gone. Go into town? he thinks to himself, don't need a fancy shop, picking food from the shelf. Felt the grub in his pocket, some heavy salted liver, maybe catch a fish or two from the Murrumbidgee river. Below a sun bleached hat hangs a face lined and weathered. A broad happy smile with teeth barely tethered. Does anyone know him, does he even have a name? Where is he from, has he a family to lay claim? When he beds for the night and sets up his camp, unrolls his swag using the fire for his lamp. What thoughts surround him, what goes on in his head? Will anyone care when life ebbs and he's dead? The life of a swagman is elusive to most, He's just a brush stroke on the landscape appearing like a ghost. A happy go lucky, vagabond, traveling pilgrim. But just like us one of Gods precious children.