sprinting on quicksand

horses in the blood

to ride out in the morning

to gallop, forward in the saddle

it’s all hold tight and exhilaration on the sandhills

to canter, so comfortable, harmonic

a steady stride across the plain

this could go forever

to trot, a simple rise and sit, feet firm on the stirrups

hell for horse and rider if you get this wrong

to walk at midday under the trees

brushing aside branches, bending under others

till we reach the river coolness

to smell the horse, the stable

hear her neighs and grunts and whinnyings

to put your hand under her mouth,

your chest against her head,

she nudges you gently in response

mother and youngest daughter would train the foals

breaking in the horse, it was called

but they worked with love

weeks of walking circles

then the bit, bridle, tightening the girth

why does the horse accept?

to smell the leather and care for it

in soap-saddle meditation

to brush down the horse, comb the mane and tail

bless the star on her forehead

then watch her roll and twist in the sand

shaking us off

girls at work

we are the rouseabouts

it’s our job to bring the sheep

to and from yards and paddocks

carry scones and billies of tea

keep out of the way, be there when needed

the shearing shed smells of lanolin

the sweat of men

and a substance unknown to me

that is dabbed on if sheep get cut

and one is always cut

for the men want to get the job done

they compete to see which man

is fastest on the blade

before each sheep

shorn of its magnificent woollen self

is thrown unceremoniously down a chute

bleating its nakedness

and always in May

the very start of winter

it is our fun to jump on the wool

in the monkey press

pushing down with all our tiny weight

to compress the fleece

young legs soaking up the lanolin

we play serious when we brush

black tar paint over the stencil

to mark wool bales Property of the Owner

for now the product smells of money

then, unhurried, we sweep the silent shed

pastoral

He was not so much a rough diamond

as plain rough cut

the photo of his long-deceased wife

shows a face to prove it

A boy jockey on country race tracks

he lived to 90 or thereabouts.

Father of a large tribe of children

in the early 20th century

he ploughed and harvested, sold sheep and wool

participated in local politics

the children went to school, became

literate, good at horse-riding, swimming

and cricket − yes even the girls.

Their childhood involved the killing of snakes

the slaughter of rabbits in times of plague

oddities like the birth of a six-legged piglet

a baby died of intestinal obstruction

a three-year-old with a fractured leg

spent months away in a city hospital

and came home not yet walking.

Two girls went on to study nursing

one becoming a formidable matron

three daughters had children out of wedlock

one son died in the first world war

another in the second – he’s buried in Burma

In all these stories one character is silent

her name appears on a dozen birth certificates,

her signature on the receipt of belongings

returned from the western Front.

She died at 53, she was the wife and mother.

lamb to mutton

when I was young I was small

but I