Australian Bush Poetry and Books

Nostalgia

Inland north from Port August to the Barkly Tableland,
From the eastern blue-gray mountains to the
Murchison’s red sand,
The plains and hidden valleys thoughout that vast terrain
Know the heavy heady perfume
Of Mulga after rain.

Than you huddle in scant shelter as the daylight turns to rust,
And the wind blasts jagged patterns in the
blinding choking dust,
The storm swirls muddy torrents, thunder
crashes in your brain,
Welcome then the soothing fragrance
Of mulga greeting rain.

The spinifex is blooming in wide fields like golden wheat
And parakeelya spreading in the shadows lush and sweet,
Myriad eyes of black and scarlet, Sturt peas
cover all the plain,
But the delicate aroma Is of mulga green with rain.

The everlasting daisies form a carpet pink and white,
A fairyland of frosting, a vision of delight,
Ghost gums dance in mystic moonlight to a whispering refrain,
Yet the spirit of the inland
Lives in mulga after rain.

See the glory of the inland as you travel far and wide,
Blooming flowers in the deserts where the willy willies ride,
But the haunting living memory to bring you back again,
Is the breath of pure nostalgia
Born of mulga scented rain.
Poem by Dick Turner

(c) Joan Small 2000

Brownlock

We went out to the station just to get a horse for Ray.
A stock horse from friend Peter - a most exciting day.
Though Ray was quite a novice, he had told us he could ride
Back into town those seven miles – but no, he walked beside.
That stock horse proved quite stubborn - and he didn’t want to go
Away from home where he’d been fed to ‘home’ he didn’t know.
And Ray was only nine years old. The horse was just too strong.
While nearby on the road we drove – a journey slow and long.

We’d heard his name was ‘Brownlock’ - a strange name for a horse.
But thinking he was used to it we kept the name of course.
The stockmen had another; as 'Old Skinny' he was known.
Not solid as a stockman’s mount - in fact more ‘skin and bone’.
A seasoned horse was Brownlock, and stubborn as a mule.
Though head shy and determined, this horse was no-one's fool.
He'd throw his head back, staring. For men he wouldn't stand.
To kids and ladies he’d relate and eat out of the hand.

Ray took some riding lessons and embarked on training stress.
But who was training who, and how, was anybody's guess.
They galloped all around the town on many a bushland track.
That versatile ex-stockhorse soon became a winning hack.
The two became a legend. Admired by all were they.
Gymkhanas, shows and jumping too, they still had time to play.
For Ray would practice falling off, in case he faced that test.
They were the envy of the club. Each gave his very best.

Our son turned twelve, we sent him off to boarding school down south.
It fell to me to learn to ride, and try out Brownlock's mouth.
He picked me for a novice, and he tested me each day.
Sometimes he'd prop his feet and stop. At times he'd fly away.
His 'trainer' had allowed him rein to gallop out and back.
The gravel road beside the dam, then fast along the track.
I nearly came unseated as we dipped into the drain.
A sharp turn here, a jump up there, I clung tight to the rein.

It must have been amusing to observe me looking pale.
Now on the horse's neck, and then I dangled near his tail.
Though shaken up and flustered, still I firmly did decide,
I'd not fall off, no matter what, and yet I'd learn to ride.
Through thick and thin we battled on, the best of enemies.
And every day I still forgave, and he tried hard to please.
I hadn't fallen once, and I was getting cocky too.
Eleven months and counting, and then Polocrosse I'd do.

I reached out with my racquet, but unbalanced - in a daze.
The pony leaned the other way, and then we parted ways.
A gentle sliding earthward, and I was on my feet.
I smiled and bowed so gracefully. I thought it rather neat.
Pride goes before the falling, and this was soon to come.
When galloping along the track I landed on my bum.
That naughty horse veered leftward, while I was pulling right.
We headed for a pole, and it was him who won the fight.

A sudden stop, off balance. We fell. I used my crop.
He rose and ambled down the road. I called, 'Please Brownlock, stop.'
So injury to insult he added on that morn.
I staggered home with wounded pride, with knees and jodhpurs torn.
And finding him not at the stables out I went to look
And there he was quite calmly standing in a shady nook.
The horse had won - I'd fallen - but now can truly say,
That I became a rider, when I hit the dirt that day.

© Joan Small July 2005

To download the complete poem 'Brownlock'
Click Here

Ebooks

'General Gordon Bennett and the
Battle of Western Australia'

'General Gordon Bennett and the Battle of Western Australia' by Dick Turner reveals the little-known story of how General Gordon Bennett
used subterfuge in Western Australia during WWII to fool the Japanese and thus prevent them attacking the nation from the west. Dick Turner was a country accountant who heard and saw evidence of this amazing bloodless "Battle of Western Australia.