A man and his son

R.E.MacRae Sept 1973

He sits quietly, comfortably, eyes closed

He allows the pictures of his past to flick by.

Some he enjoys, some he loves, and some cause pain,

But they are all clear in his memories eye.

Ah, there, that’s worth gazing upon,

He has to shade his eyes the sun is so strong.

He looks out from the homestead verandah,

The plains are flat and wide, trees are scarce.

The bountiful harvest, like God’s goodness is endless.

He can see the breeze playing through the crop,

The heatwaves blur the purple hills even to the top.

Listen, he hears his old header, horses and son,

It’s his first year, thinks farming is fun,

But as time went on his feelings changed.

Farming’s in the blood, you can’t just hate it, you must run

Off to the cities where life is easier but alas shallower.

The pictures flick by, there’s a tear in his eye,

The nurse calls his name then wheels him inside,