Cowboys and
Horses and little Girl’s tears.
Maureen Clifford ©
The Scribbly Bark Poet
Inspired by a
story told by
Mike Moutoux – New
Mexico’s enchanting cowboy.
The cowboy stood
there in the room just talking to the kids
and telling them
about his horse and all the things he did
like roping,
branding, rounding up – that’s mustering in Australia
the kids were all
entranced by him , dazzled by his regalia.
His boots had
silver spurs attached with rowels shiny bright,
around his neck a
neckerchief , shaded blue, red and white.
His leather chaps had
longhorn steer conchos firmly attached,
his belt buckle a
bucking bull – his jeans were worn and patched.
He told them “Yes
- cowboying is what I do for a crust
and like your Dads
and Brothers we spend hours wreathed in dust
working beneath a
sun so hot it could blister your brain
and we too
search the heavens, always looking out for rain.
Our horses are our
buddies – well out here you call them Mates.
We’re not so very
different, that’s why we can relate.
My best friend’s
name is Trigger and he’s coloured like a dollar
the darkest shade
of gold and like a good dog, he will follow.”
He noticed as he
told his tales one girls face wet with tears
and being a kind
hearted bloke he leant to share her fears.
“Have you too got
a horse you love? And is he your best
friend?”
Why don’t you tell
his story now – and help us comprehend
your sadness. Why tears streak your face – will you share
it with me?”
“I will” the
little girl replied “I’m very sad you see.
My horses name is
Ginger and he really is quite old
He was born long
before I was – twenty years I’ve been told.
The drought is
hitting really bad – Dad’s shot a lot of stock.
We’re nearly out
of water, we’ve off loaded half the flock
and Dad has said
the bank won’t give a single cent in cash
our overdraft is
way to high – he says we’ve done our dash.
He says that more
stock has to go – they’ll only starve and die
and I’ve prayed to
the bloke upstairs for rain – I don’t know why
‘cause he doesn’t
seem to listen and each day Dad says the dry
is getting further
reaching and Mister that makes me cry.
I love Ginger – he
is my mate – my truly bestest friend
and I know he is
hungry but this drought don’t never end.
I’m feeding him
short rations – lucerne every other day
but that has
nearly gone now and for more we cannot pay.
I know he’s old
and slower but to shoot him – well that’s mean.
But to see him
starve is cruel too – he isn’t a machine.
His hips are
sticking out now I can even count his ribs.
Mum says that it
will rain soon but I think she’s telling fibs.”
The cowboy stood
and pondered for he felt the young ones pain
and nothing he
could do or say was going to make it rain.
When days were
dark and dreary and one gave in to despair
sometimes the only
thing left was the powerfulness of prayer.
He sometimes
talked when on the range to the bloke there upstairs
and felt his voice
was carried on the balmy prairie airs
He asked the
teachers permission to say a prayer for rain
and all the little
ones joined in - the girl was calm again.
I’d like to say
their prayers came true and everything was right
and it did rain
eventually for half a day and night
and fodder
magically appeared on board a big prime mover
from funds
supplied by city folks – a tactical manoeuvre.
Old Ginger ate
some tucker as did the rest of the cattle.
The Cowboy caught
a plane back home his own demons to battle
A farmers still a
farmer no matter where his range
all at the whims
of nature – but they count it fair exchange.
