For the first 7 months of this year I’ve been trapped in the office tackling mountains of administration every day (that’s literally every day, not public-service ‘every day’; i.e. it has been the best part of 7 days a week, including public holidays; except for a couple of days over Easter and a trip away to a relative’s funeral). Plus many nights. And I’ll be chained to the office for at least the next four months – 7/days a week. Unfortunately, not hours that are uncommon for a small business, and it’s the only way it’s possible for me to produce a book and run a household at the same time. If you want to test the hours worked by small business people, email an owner on a Saturday night or Sunday afternoon, and don’t be surprised if you receive a reply before Monday morning. I am champing at the bit to get out into the sticks. While cleaning up yet another one of my silverfish tucker mountains, I came across a poem written by entertainer Sandy Thorne when she opened the ‘Roaming around the bush’ exhibition in Roma, in 2008. Thanks again Sandy for the reminder of how it feels to be pining for the bush. As my reward for slaving away getting the office work back in order, I’m going to be away quite a bit next year, taking photographs and roaming around. Everyone needs some sort of carrot in mind, as an incentive to tackle the most tedious tasks.
In Sandy’s poem I think I can also hear her remembering her days on a Cape York station too:
She provides a feast for our hungry eyes Of scenes that we love, under outback skiesStockmen riding out at dawnSweet-faced calves, all newly born
Striving to keep up to the massive mob
Lean riders confident in their job
Yarding several thousand head
Impressed, we gaze, our senses fed
You can smell the dust, you can hear the din
You return the happy stockman’s grin
You feel their pride at a job well done
Silhouetted by splendid setting sun
And here they are, riding out again
Across breath taking view of open plain
Horses ears pricked, feel their keen stride
Hear the creak of leather, once again you ride
As you did when you were young and free
How these lifelike scenes muster memories
For we ordinary folk who drew our pay
And the big-time cattlemen, now going grey
To bushies trapped in concrete towers
These pictures wield quite magical powers
Taking them from boardrooms and penthouse suites
Away from the noisy maddening streets
To the freedom and peace, the friendship, the fun
To where their hearts belong, out on the big runs.
Thank you Fiona, for the gift you share with us.
Tags: Bush poetry