Waiting

For more than forty years he mustered horses to the yard, Reminding all the younger blokes “You’ve ‘gotta’ stay on guard, For even decent broken horses have a spirit that is high, And the months of lengthy grazing, can make them saddle shy”. His spoken word was ‘gospel’ to the ringers on the rail, As they watched the flighty gelding with it’s sinewed body flail, In a wretched test of strength between a man and bucking horse, With just a moment lapsing came a death demanding force. The sickening thud of hoof against the now defenseless skull, Placed a numbness through the ringers in a seeming timeless lull, Some rushed toward their mentor, some to keep the horse at bay, And every face looked grim as they carried him away. Time can seem eternal when the basic aids are not of use, A man is hardly breathing and his limbs are falling loose, When the doctor is still coming from an hour’s flight away, And the women of the station ask the station men to pray. Throughout the day the horses wait beneath the bloodwood shade, And ringers eager in the morn have felt their interest fade, Their thoughts are feeling for the man upon a homestead bed, Not knowing if the man’s alive, or if the man is dead. Their faces gray and gaunt have their vision quite impaired, As they sought their own direction and in silence quietly stared, With prayers of understanding (that ringers rarely speak), The silence and the waiting turned around their other cheek. The hours passed to falling dusk and still there is no word, The whinnying of a waiting horse is all that can be heard, And the tension in the quarters caused a snap toward a bloke, When the eerie still was broken by… “Has anyone a smoke?” Through homestead blinds by shadows, steady movement could be seen, The ringers broke their silence wondering what the movements mean, They walked across the yard and heard the footsteps on the floor, And every mind was focused on the opening of the door.