Bora born
Sylvies rest_
The streets repaved, slotted out empty spaces
pattern a mosaic of white stripes on black.
The dripping gutter from the stock and station
agent across the road, Eddie Clarke's old place
beats in time with a crow's carried cries for help
peddled on the breeze somewhere in the distance.
The trees have grown that's for sure, a high rise of
green canopy set to musical tones.
They greet the day in this quiet languid bush town
with a fine hello of flushed out greens in song
before Jandowae streets echo them out in
machines combusting fuel heard from miles away.
Tonka Ellis short cuts the street in a laid
back “good morning mate” hoi to kick start his day.
Voices travel, but low enough to keep the
stuff secret as he meets a mate with a yarn
on the way back from porky frazer's old store
told in measured timbered patient menspeak.
Room 8 at the Club Hotel is pretty well
stuffed, dusted down in make over mode's tribute.
Time cracked shops opposite creep inside this room
through the rough nailed fly screened slide up windows dressed
up in lead coated paint, skinned in acrylic
set in the pub's blush pink wall's telling statement.
The pub's bar recuts the floor, smaller, cozy
as, the hearth lucked out from winter's pearl warm glow.
This place has it's way with you, memories creep
in from somewhere deep inside this building
locked away for four decades, it's silent walls
surround a full moon's broken window now fixed.
Vince Seng laid that one on when porky frazer's
twenty stone sat him down till Ross Diplock came.
Vince was like that, six foot five as solid as
his slashed, fisted arteries cut with rage from nowhere
when he felt the full lunar pull through the pub
window; those gentle giants do some strange things.
Then the news hits home of why he's been drawn here
after all this ttime, then miss out by one day.
Tonka's yarn came close but Sylvia became
one with the soil on the Jimbour plains that day, her
sand topped mound now signed with a finger, for she
was as true blue as this sun burnt country gets.
Sylvia, wife of Bob Abbott, the only
labor voters left in town on a good day.
She had taught him how to be reasonable
with life, the middle way to grow into men
she mothered them, washed, ironed clothes, fed them for two
years as pub cook and they had loved her right back.
Now this place settles in quiet distant murmurs
swept through on a tide of emotions so pressed.
Every which way it comes, their presence seen, heard
on the breath, they drift in on scattered laughter
those shades of the past, bundled up yesterdays
here now shootin the breeze, love within their midst.
- O -
© 20th mar 2013 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Sylvies rest_
Sylvies rest_
