AROUND THE CAMPFIRE

This poem is used with kind permission from Terry.  It is from Terry's latest book titled

Around the Campfire.

Copies of Terry's beautifully illustrated book can be obtained for $25
by contacting Terry ... Order From <terrence.piggott@bigpond.com>

Terry grew up in W.A. and was described by a friend as a restless person who always wanted to see what was over the next hill.  Terry reckons that is a fair description.

He has spent a lot of time at Cooper Pedy and for a while ran his own Opal cutting business.  He spends a lot of his time in the bush which he loves, searching for gemstones and fishing and probably writing some beaut poetry just like this one.

Thank you Terry for allowing me to make use of this on my blog site - I greatly appreciate the honour.

Cheers - Maureen

THE OLD MINE

© Terry Piggott

The mullock dump lay crumbling in the searing goldfields heat

with timbers boweed and rotting in the shaft beneath my feet.

A termite riddled windlass lays forlonly on its side.

while kibbles, picks and shovels have been scattered far and wide.

It was an isolated spot just stumbled on by chance,
and could have easily been passed without a second glance.
It made a magic setting as the sun sets in the west
and softened out the landscape so the country looks its best.

The Mulga seems to come alive as twilight shadows merge,
with fading rays of sunlight out across the stony verge.

Eroding hills around me; hidden from the glaring sun,

display their brilliant colours now the day was almost done. 

I left the oven simmering to gently cook the stew,

then wandered slowly up the slope to get a better view.

And noticed there a lonely grave with stones placed all around,

the headstone just a lump of quartz set deeply in the ground. 

I stood there for a moment quietly taking in the scene,

recalling lonely graves at many other spots I’ve been. 

Where life abruptly ended with no one to shed a tear,

alone and unattended as their final hour drew near.

The site was clearly chosen for its panoramic views,

that showed the rugged outback; in a way he’d surely choose.

And though a thousand years may pass his spirit would stay free,

to rest upon this hillside; underneath a shady tree.

Around the fire that evening I placed a second chair, 

symbolic recognition of whoever lay up there.

I sensed his gentle spirit as I sipped my mug of tea,

and wondered just how many times; he’d sat beneath this tree.

I dreamt about the old bloke as he sought his golden prize,

I heard the windlass creaking; saw excitement in his eyes.

Then came the thudding of his pick when striking solid ground,

his fevered mind convinced, that soon, his fortune would be found.

I heard the dolly ringing as he pounds the golden ore,

the pestle strikes the solid quartz a hundred times or more.

Excitement lights his weathered face, there's colour in the dish,

perhaps at last the big one to fulfil a lifetime wish.  

Next morning saw me pack my gear to get an early start,

although this was a peaceful place, the time had come to part.

The dusty track now beckoned with exciting things to see,

those distant hills a magnet; to a restless bloke like me.  

Returning to the slope again I bid a last farewell,

and wished I’d known the old chap; heard the stories he could tell.

I stood there for a moment, deep in thought about the brave, 

then placed a sprig of Mulga by the headstone of his grave.