You'll find him on a silver seat. With a paper spread a wide,

In a sunlit café corner down the street.

His fingerprinted glasses sit a little off the plum,

With a pencil he fills out a bookies sheet.

You wouldn't hardly know it but the stunted slouching figure

Was once the definition of a man.

He would plough up his father's paddock, bless shearing shed for miles

The house he owned he built with his own hands.

He cut timber in the sawmill, he fought in boxing tents

He cleared timber with an axe and with a saw.

While breaking in a wild young colt, the neighbours couldn't beat

He rode the bronco bareback to their awe.

His wife brought up the children though he took them to their sport

He coached Cricket, League and Netball for a time.

The kids knew the grounds they stood on; his rules were strict but fair.

The strap was waiting if they toed the line.

He gently rises from the table and folds his paper under arm

Pays the girl behind the counter for his tea.

His time has faded slowly, past glories lost in time

His stories now are left to history.

by Leonie O'Brien