Lines Written In Albany
On white lines on valiant wheels
I head north leaving behind the City of Sails
with its humourless streets,
its casino steel and glass Sky Tower
built upon the rubble of a grander age
peopled by a grander pride.
In my rear-view the harbour’s steel arch,
a bridge to near and far -
monument to post-war industrialisation.
And as far as the eye can see,
New Age castles of urban sprawl;
rows of suburban microwave towers;
greenhouse chimneys; concrete bunkers -
behold the isle of Rangitoto
sits a jewel rock in the gulf crown.
And straight up State Highway 1 -
land of my youth where
the hills are alive with the sound of cowbells,
ghosts of gumdiggers, flax millers,
sly-groggers, outlaws, brigand sailors…
the dead end at Schnapper Rock
to Rosedale, Oteha Valley and beyond,
the fertile salad and fruit bowl
orchard trees of Clemow and Airborne.
A land of milk and honey,
fleece and beef, the rich strawberry fields
where I once worked hard(ly)!
Gone is the quaint village church hall -
last year’s scything twister
went Old Testament in a rage!
But not the “Great War” memorial
to twenty three of its sons.
Poetic methinks that a mighty whirlwind,
an act of God raise a tempest
and smite down the hallowed walls on
these Footrot Flats in the house
of cowshed fundamentalism. Is it the work
of a divine gumboot wearing monk
named Fred or Trev who in the debris spare
the heathen pub’s fermentations?
I know which I would spare…cheers!
Do tell by what grievance or sin
or wrath is “thy will” done?
Yet the hillside graveyard remains intact -
well, you can’t be killed twice
so those deadbeat bastards are laughing!
So too the boys after a long day
drinking in matchplay a matchstick glass,
and romancing the bush pig
rodeo girls on a Saturday night
in their tight thigh slapping spangled jeans,
in their rootin’ tootin’ fu-ck me boots
and their “bend me over and hogtie me”
eyes looking to bushwhack
some poor drooling rope jockey
at the Wayside Inn watering hole
and saloon. Small lives in small towns
drinking, shooting (pool that is).
Rednecks and cowboys off their wagons
till closing time’s last call. Hell,
more than once I hitched my pony there -
days when my saddle bags
carried lead, not talents of gold,
when loathing and loss filled my glass
and there were no paths
to glory - sadly no happy trails!
Written: September 1996
Pic above: Wayside Inn pub in Albany.
(circa 1980)
Copyright ©
Keith D Trestrail
|