The Hard Yards

THE HARD YARDS

‘Success cannot be measured
Never judge another’s call
It’s a hard and fickle life, by God!
And the best of men can fall’

Through the long and wasted paddock, pushing cattle, with his kids
Edging closer to the saleyards and those cheap and nasty bids
Rides a father, chewing grass-blades, mulling over in his mind
All the urgent jobs (and loving), he had left so far behind.
He’ll be done with it tomorrow, squatting there upon a rail
Listening to some struggling Cocky quoting, ‘twenty bucks a bale’.
But they’ll share a joke regardless, shout a beer, and force a smile;
Just another thirsty gully down another country mile...

How the lush feed once had beckoned to his cattle plump and prime,
How he tried to measure graciously the fortunes of the climb,
Knuckling down to do the hard yards, placing faith in ‘what may come’
And, most years it was the summer rains that beat that lucky drum.

But today his vision staggers, as to what the future holds.
On each hilltop, ‘round each corner, one more obstacle unfolds,
As the cracks keep growing wider, and the remnants of each crop
Like a billboard on the highway, scream out at him, ‘close up shop!’
While the Banker, stalking closely, rings him every second day,
For his credit ran a torrent that eroded hope away;
So, his Missus got a job in town to keep each day afloat
Til, just recently this wide brown land had swallowed up their boat...

Oh! The memories that flooded in, their children in the creek
Splashing ‘round those crowded yabby pots, when nothing was so bleak,
When the neighbours came for tennis or a Picnic at the Races
And the hard yards were made bearable by mateship’s many faces…

Cheerful faces! Welcome faces! And next week, come one! Come all!
They will gather for the clearance sale, with backs against the wall,
Where the buyers strike a bargain and their life goes for a steal,
(Yet they’ll muster up a bar there, and put on a decent meal).
Generations of tradition, twelve long years of going bust,
With the slamming of a gavel, local legends bite the dust,
As their spirits, like the ochre sun that sets upon their plain,
Simmer quietly in the trenches, beaten back by lack of rain...

But, give them half a chance and they will rise to see it through
With a character as vibrant as a squawking Cockatoo,
Volunteering for the hard yards, breeding livestock, tending crops,
To supply that hungry mob who graze relentless through our shops,

Who, together with the empathetic tourists passing by,
Search for glimpses of the romance that the poets glorify;
For the swagger of the Bushie, or the charming drawl they speak,
For that Aussie bloody Icon, with his wild and woolly streak,
Who tonight around his campfire will, regardless, grin a while
As he tells each saddle-weary kid to brighten up their dial,
‘Cause those dreamers in the cities where the stars are choked and veiled,
Paid a fortune to go riding down the tracks their souls have sailed...

Here!...Where silence skips a heart beat, and the heavens play a tune
And, the hard yards close around him as he strolls beneath the moon,
Blinded briefly by the Road Trains, (how those healthy engines roar),
While his cattle, like their owner, scrounge around for something more.