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The Reedybrook ashes is an invitation only annual cricket "carnaval' held on Reedybrook station...in the middle of nowhere.
Each year in August the teams descend, cricket foe morphing quickly to friend,
Bonds are forged on a pitch unique, camped on the banks of Reedybrook creek.
The grass is cut, the fields set out, the umpires shout, ‘Fair play gents, otherwise, you’re out!’
Of drinks consumed, we will not speak, while camped on the banks of Reedybrook creek.
Dirt roads challenge each gearbox, as the Grogalots, Cowboys, and Crocs;
Join the Misfits and Showuzya, named in cheek, arriving earlier each week,
The Mudrats, the Gumflats and West Endies; all regular ashes attendees
They come from Hughenden, Tully and Baffles Creek, to play the ashes at Reedybrook creek.
For Angel flight and the Royal Flying Doctor’s Service, keen bar volunteers serve us,
Increased proceeds are what they seek, to bolster donations from Reedybrook creek,
Without the service they provide, a caring hand, a smile, an emergency hospital ride,
Our life in the bush would indeed be bleak, as we sit on banks like Reedybrook creek.
Mist curls between trees where kangaroos twitch while hungover players struggle to the pitch,
The games begin, heads ache, knees weak as the players play and spectators shriek
Last games’ duck now makes a run, wearing the wig is never fun,
Game rules are taken tongue in cheek, by most who play at Reedybrook creek.
Cattle interrupt afternoon plays as they pause mid-field, to stare and graze.
At dusk, campfires are lit, as we sit and speak, offering advice but never critique
Rehashing the day, discussing play, differences disappear while drinking beer; we stay,
Like minded players of every physique, who enjoy playing cricket at Reedybrook creek.
Saturday night sees us return to the bar, coming by car expedient; who knows the cops might prove lenient.
Dressed in jeans, boots, and hats, our finest ‘bush chic’; the band plays, toads’ race, we drink and take a leak,
In eco-friendly long drops or port-a-loos’ provided, inebriated all, the competition undecided
Until tomorrows games; no place for the meek are the ashes of Reedybrook creek
Half frozen when temperatures drop, most retire, some to amorous liaisons aspire,
These stealthy forms across starlit paddocks streak as back to their campsites they later sneak
Not all manage the potholed paddock, though broken bones are sporadic,
Some too drunk, others to weak, some slide down the banks into Reedybrook creek
Sunday afternoon sees the fun begin, child or piglet, guess who’ll win?
Of ‘keep your catch’, it is we speak; chaos reigns, kids squeal, pigs squeak.
More fund-raising follows, as surely it should; The items for auction, some perfectly good
Are donated objects, often unique, sometimes antique, one time a painting of Reedybrook creek.
School holiday fun is better than getting expelled so now in September the ashes are held,
Once children, now players debating technique, learned on the banks of Reedybrook creek
The tradition passes from father to son, as each generation joins in the fun
Memories savoured, in fondness we speak, as we say farewell to Reedybrook creek
Copyright © Huberta van Akkeren | Year Posted 2019