Cattle bids made the auctioneer sing of prices not so bad, as he danced with an old rogue steer around the pen. The silent manoeuvre renders the crowd quiet, as the Boorowa lad lets out a familiar call, mirroring his late Dad. As the murmuring heartbeat starts again, the bustle continues on- this pen makes way for the next, the bidding starts again.
At home the fireplace becomes more needed, smoke settling in the landscape a paradoxical reminder of the campfires, now an anachronistic memory. The kettle sings a familiar tune prompting tea sips and reminding me of my Great Grandmother’s rules of needing a biscuit or two with every cup. Her gentle nature guides me, as I try and emulate her perfection through my travels. Dancing in dreams only, tulips surround forgiving landscapes to path the way.
While my heart and mind tick to the Bucketts past and Boorowa paddocks, most of my time this week has been on soaring steel and in unfamiliar beds. The red desert sparkled somewhere in the centre, like the blazing heart of the country warning unfamiliar players. Newcastle to Brisbane, down to Adelaide and across to Sydney, finally back home. Time ticking travel, creating time to read and podcast.
Amongst the clouds, my mind dreams of home, building braford cattle to new heights and riding with the merinos in the hustling hills. I think of the legacy that has been built, my role in carrying it on and the nuances I can add. Out past the city lights with fake facades and adopted self importance, down to a flowing creek and a forged dirt road provides direction. The city seemed to rear its ugly head more this week, making me tired and unamused.
While fatigued and disappointed in city views, I’ve found meaning in the words of the books I’ve read and the podcasts I’ve listened to. The lyricism of country songs sing sweet lullabies to the passing trees and fill the skies with hope. A sole guitar strumming plays from the heavens as an old country song joins in. While I can’t record a chord he played, the sound familiar to a tapping foot.
At home the cooling nights encouraged ice into the hoses outside, as the dormant native bees concerned me given the frost. But all is well, perhaps only the garden a little punished. Polly seems to have continued growing, as I took her for a wash this morning. Things are steady, but hopeful.
Lyrics found meaning this week as white lines were overtook by white clouds. The Adelaide streets connected me with cattle baron tales, as the alter ego flowed into the state. Lyricism meaning.