Fred Gestier
When my Maternal Grandfather
ploughed the acreage
his tractor bucked and shook
the engine roared
giving him tinitis
his bleached hat
flopped impotent
as the confronting Sun
had its way
immolating
my Grandfather’s cheeks
with the catalyst
for a future legacy
of skin cancer.
At dawn
he rose
to milk Cows
indifferent
to tactile fingers
on strong hands
manipulating teats.
Walk past the rainwater tank
that collected so seldomly
random contributions from clouds.
To be a Farmer
‘Boss Cocky’
on your own
piece of land
was better
than
“a life
of quiet desperation”*
on alienating urban thoroughfares
with shallow dreams
which contemplated
their own suicide
but decided to bore
en-route to a home
that was halfway House
halfway God’s waiting room.
“People were lonely
in the Big City”
thought my Grandfather.
They were strangers
to themselves
ceasing to exist
alone in company
until the moment
someone reminded them
to behave in a manner
ingratiating to the Boss
to come alive
upon retirement
in seaside resort
or hobby farm.
Grandad
was never alone
curious crows called mockery
at his solitary man
interrupting still landscape
with rhythmic cadences,
that punctuate,
the reality
of Wagga Wagga
Country life.
* Henry David Thoreau
poem by Pete Dowe
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