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Fred Hundy Poem
The front bar of the Criterion is filling up,
It’s after five and the patrons are filing in.
Placed orders echoing off the old timbers
Vying to be heard and adding to the din.
The Grand Old Lady proudly plays host
As she looks out over the muddy Fitzroy.
Thirsty travellers mingle with the regulars,
Escaping the heat with a time worn ploy.
The nubile young bar staff are soon kept busy
As the chaos of orders are shouted out.
Pots and schooners, Bundy Rum and XXXX,
Of their burning thirst there can be no doubt.
The old burnished timber balustrade
though hints at an earlier time of splendor.
An era lost in a more genteel age,
When the old lady was of years more tender.
There’s a Dining Room and spacious Saloon,
Public Bar and upstairs rooms in which to stay.
All retaining their charm of yesteryear,
You can imagine just what they would say.
They’d tell tales of the customers of old,
Of the dusty drovers long on the track.
To the bar to slake a hard earned thirst
Before again mounting up to “get on back”.
Of the bullockies breasting up to the bar
Still cursing that cranky old lead beast.
In language blue they summons the barmaid
And soon settle in for a liquid feast.
Floorboards ringing to the thud of hob nailed boots
As the thirsty stockmen venture into town.
Today their pockets are full of promise,
Tomorrow hangovers they need to drown.
They’d recall long ago warm summer nights
With the polished chandeliers shining bright.
When the silver cutlery was out on display,
And well set tables made for a grand sight.
When gentlemen and ladies on the town
Took pride in appearance to look the part.
When crinoline, whale bone, lace and shift,
Were well placed to land a gentleman’s heart.
And assignations conducted furtively
In consummation of illicit affairs.
All in the rooms overlooking the city,
at the top of those carpeted old stairs.
I’m sure that today’s equivalent games
Are still seen daily by those left in charge.
The same scenes repeated by a new crowd,
The same desires on their faces writ large.
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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Fred Hundy Poem
The fading colours in a trembling leaf,
Perhaps a portent of the coming cold,
When the heavy hand of an icy winter
Will press hard upon gully, flat and fold.
The rose’s vicious stems will be laid bare
Making way for the jonquils proud display.
Their sweet perfume partial compensation
For the grey and dreary days here to stay.
The cold sou’westerly wind on icy wings
Will fly over the brow of Mount Misery,
The wintery clouds fleeing before it,
Not daring in unison to mutiny.
The manicured grass of lawns will go brown,
held hostage to the frost of brilliant white.
Hillsides alive with the gold of the wattles
Blazing on the steep green slopes in sunlight.
The tweed collars of brown will be turned up
On every sort of mothballed winter coat.
The rosy red cheeks will beam in defiance,
Yet another colour winter can’t smote.
The grand golden elms of Robertson Park
Will a brittle and brilliant carpet form.
A natural new millionaire’s playground
To which rugged up bustling children are drawn.
There’ll be the loud shrieks of childish laughter,
And tears of despair as fallen leaves fly.
Soon their winter coats will all be soaked through,
With parents wondering how they’ll get them dry.
The elegant green stained spire of Saint Mary’s
Still and silent shows the way through the fog.
Relentlessly pointing to the heavens
With a message for ev’ry man and his dog.
The heavy white winter blanket laying
Along the wandering waters of Cudgegong,
Spills out into town hiding morn’s magpies,
Intent on heralding the dawn with song.
Such are my closely held boyhood memories
Of frostbitten freezing winters ‘back home’.
The view through these rose coloured glasses
Afflicting the reminisces of this poem.
Looking over my shoulder I’m reminded
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.
And I can vouch for the time-honoured truth,
As through the years I have set to wander.
For here I sit in my favourite spot
As the sun shines on this the Queen’s land.
In this pale northern version of winter ,
Where it’s mid May and the weather’s still grand.
Perhaps if I could just make a visit,
Get a taste and then too quickly retreat.
For there is no doubt it would bite hard
After several years of life in this heat.
Still, my children both look at me askance
When I talk fondly of frost, fog and ice.
Of cutting winds, low clouds and warm fireplace,
Oh, to go back there - wouldn’t it be nice!
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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Fred Hundy Poem
A chimney on a low rise standing sentinel
On the loosely scattered outskirts of town.
A reminder of an old house built by hand,
The home around the hearth long fallen down.
The silvery frost covering the remnants
Of the old broken place spilled on the ground,
No room hereabouts for cheap sentiment,
It’s bleached broken bones now earthward bound.
Wandering through someone else’s ruins
My imagination starts to take hold.
Discovering relics from times long since past,
Anonymous, broken, rusted and old.
I spy a grand old wood fired oven’s legs
Sprawled akimbo all four across the floor.
With its door ajar and enamel cracked,
It’ll provide them warmth and food no more.
The floorboards cling to the twisted bearers,
Bleached pine timbers cracked, warped and twisted.
Only wind swept and no longer mopped with pride,
Their gaps now hide rabbits no longer hunted.
Amongst the wooden wreckage lay scattered
Shards of brilliant and broken lead stained glass.
Elegant reminders of another time
when no-one thought this would come to pass.
A time when the front door was always open
And the pine rafters inside rang with life.
When a family filled the space with laughter
And gathered at the hearth in times of strife.
A battered and blackened iron pot upturned,
Rusted holes, cracked and weathered through.
It’ll never again be used to boil up
A feed of mouth watering mutton stew.
Handles, hinges, bolts and rusty nails too,
Lay in abandonment across the grounds.
The daffodils, jonquils and geraniums,
Now foreign to the garden’s new surrounds.
An aching head betrays a tired sadness
At forgotten scenes of decay and neglect.
Ignorant passers by cause me to wince,
As on this families history I reflect.
This one too from our sight they’ll soon remove
As progresses heavy capped boots march in.
The suburbs swallowing up our old farms,
As new histories in new houses begin.
I’ve come across many such sites of times past
As around the back blocks I’ve wandered.
If your eyes were open you’ll have seen them,
But do you care for our heritage squandered?
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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Fred Hundy Poem
A familiar nod and ‘how yer goin’ mate?”
Enquiry put as a matter of course.
Followed by a firm and strong handshake,
Heart felt silent message to reinforce.
Knowing often the less said the better,
That there’s no need for all the ins and outs.
A mate’s determined interrogation,
His quiet concern will leave him few doubts.
He knew there’d be no lengthy monologue,
Or galling tale told in chapter and verse.
Nor a probing blow by blow description,
With theatric turgid words low and terse.
Relieved, “Yeah I’m not goin’ too bad thanks mate”,
Was all he mustered in thankful reply.
Then laconically turning their heads,
Lest they see a tear in each other’s eye.
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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Fred Hundy Poem
Oh, a motley mob of rowdy men are we
When we hit your town to go on a spree.
We’ve fleeced the worst of their wiry wool
And our canvas pockets are now brim full.
We’ve come from the biggest runs near and far
To sup Beenleigh Rum at your inn’s bar.
On bowed horseback and busted spring cart
So fill ‘em up man, let’s make a spry start.
From the old stations on country out west
We’ve plied our tiring trade and done our best.
And hard won now our time for fun has come
We’ll sing and we’ll roar on Queensland rum.
From the Darling Downs too the men’ll ride
With their pockets full of silvery pride.
For I’m a man to shear six score and more,
I’ll best the limey new chum that’s for sure.
I’ve bested station bosses for wages
With their journal’s ripe and ink blackened pages.
It’s season’s end out on the famed Bulloo,
My muscles are hard and demeanour too.
Where even the blow flies head for the shade
And white are the men of mark ready-made.
The goin’s hard pushin’ through their western wool
For of the burr their fleeces are often full.
The rams are regal though their manners mean
With their horns and hooves they’ll fight keen.
They’ll best me not on the gentry’s board
For I’ve never yet left merino flawed.
The tar boy’s still a stranger I’ve not met
For I’ve not needed his poison pot yet.
My blows are long and blade strikes true,
But I’ve no need to boast to such as you.
The western wethers are big as bullocks
Running wild in thousand acre paddocks.
And the cook’s a master in the dark arts
Of making a meal from a beast’s worst parts.
I see you doubt me and good luck to you
For tonight I drink to a season through.
I’ll do it again next year have no doubt,
Draw it mild man and join me in a shout!
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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Fred Hundy Poem
Oh Mick McGrath, man of daring do
What will the family make of you?
A forgotten ghost from the past,
Standing trapped in a die well cast.
Oh Mick McGrath, will they hear your name?
Born to peasants in a land of famine
You sailed the terrible seas from Erin.
A southern land of promise found
Only to find the bias still bound.
Oh Mick McGrath, can you feel the shame?
Starving on a selection too small
Relying on native wherewithal.
Mick, you ranged the mountains at will
Seeking the mark, the chase and thrill.
Oh Mick McGrath, were you in the game?
The traps thundered to Campbells Creek
Seeking the McGraths and others weak.
And so you came before the law
An old hand had up the mantel you bore.
Oh Mick McGrath, were you to blame?
Your fate sealed they squealed long and loud,
This Tipperary man remained unbowed.
You argued your case with alacrity,
Though all was forfeit to her Majesty.
Oh Mick McGrath, no gaol cell could tame!
Suspicious eyes peer down the years
Hands loose clasped your fiery gaze sears.
Ten years on the roads - justice done,
To Berrima a stranger to the sun.
Oh Mick McGrath, Ma still burns the flame!
Ten years off what should’ve been
Because of the things you had seen.
Droving in the families’ employ,
A broken and unwanted toy.
Oh Mick McGrath, so you went insane!
With no monument lost in the past
From new pages your place held fast.
A grainy picture in shadowy relief,
A man who kept his family’s belief.
Oh Mick McGrath, now they know your name!
Copyright © Fred Hundy | Year Posted 2012
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