Heading for Harden, on the way to Young,Turn after Yass.
Into the scrub looking for a pub,
It comes to mind whilst driving too!
The hills and the sky meet with the colours of a Cockatoo.
The sky turning opal blue or was it potch.
The hue & character transcend the mind.
Where are we going, into this picture of time?
Our car window is clear as a canvas.
The hills all golden, the wheat all shorn.
Lambs in mobs, treading stubble under feet.
The autumn’s air & leaves turning colours of Amber to Brown.
Waiting till crisp winds, to fall on the ground.
The road ahead is like driving the needle through thread.
The meandering cocky is driving real slow.
A thousand cars to town they must tow.
If this bugger gets any slower I’ll fall asleep.
It will do no good to give a beep.
The Cocky's mind is on conserving fuel.
This vehicle is just another farming tool.
The working dog is in the back of the Ute.
Up the hills, he needs to give the engine a boot.
History recalling, it once was Quarter horses,
Going to town or a dray loaded with hay.
Or country folks sitting on perched on buck board,
Carriages travelling dirt roads to attend their church.
Tis nearing the Anzac.
This town where once the Light horse could be found.
“From Harden & Murrumburrah they gathered at the horse rail”.
To put together war horses.
What was light about these horses?
See the statue, of a horse saving the lives of four men!
Spare a thought these towns; they lost some of the best.
Forty thousand light horse men could not be wrong!
Be it in song, or “The Ode”, or we only need say.
We honour them.