The Bushman’s Drought Breaker

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Early on one hot summer morn,
The Bushman sat a’ reading,
Contemplating his week ahead,
And to what his stock he’d be feeding.

The Newspaper covering his district,
’twas always good to read,
filled with news and an array of content,
from sports ’n’ yarns, to ‘How to Succeed’.

Sunshine ’twas predicted once again,
On the forecast charts of that paper,
’twas all they’d said four months in a row,
The Bushman pondered the whole caper.

Putting down the paper sighing,
The Bushman saddled up his horse,
Rode out to check his struggling heard,
Of which drought was dwindling in its force.

Yet he loped them down more branches,
Refilled their dry water troughs,
Heaved motherless calves o’er his saddle,
taking them home with dust filled coughs.

Day after day he continued,
Physical exhaustion taking it’s toll,
Stock feed becoming rather scarce,
Buying hay became his moneys role.

Then late one October afternoon,
As the sun sank in the sky,
The Bushman ’twas riding homebound,
When a raindrop fell above his eye.

Soon ’twas followed by thousands more,
Raining hard that whole night long,
Next morn there was a wondrous sight,
All the thick powdery dust now long gone.

Dark grey clouds still loomed over head,
yet The Bushman’s mood was bright,
Water tanks and dams were overflowing,
The now running creek sparkled in sunlight.

His large grey prized brahman bull,
’twas hock deep in sticky mud,
The calves safe in the hay shed,
Were snuggled up chewing their cud.

His Stallion had found it driest,
On the verandah near the door,
With such a covering of water,
All was refreshed once more.

 The Bushman soon waded out,
And found his chickens up a tree,
Their coop had come open as it sunk,
letting them all roam free.

Then the rain started down again,
So hard he thought it hail,
The Bushman had to find his dryzabone,
going back out with no prevail.

He found most of his cattle heard,
had sheltered in a cave,
not too far off his homestead,
So to them some hay he gave.

A small greyish wallaroo,
was bogged by his vege patch,
After some rather cautious struggling,
He freed it from it’s catch.

Still the rain came pouring down,
The Bushman now inside,
Relaxed by a window to watch,
for it wasn’t good weather to ride.

Shower after welcomed shower,
the rain continued on,
Ground resembled a quagmire,
Only slushy mud to walk upon.

The Bushman didn’t mind though,
It seemed so long overdue,
Singing happily as he trudged along,
with animals joining in on cue.

When at last the rain finally cleared,
Leaving a fresh blue sky,
The Bushman looked around pondering,
All the prospects it left by.

Mud this deep he knew could take days,
Perhaps even weeks to dry out,
He’d have to shut his cattle in the cave,
Just how was clouded with doubt.

After fair consideration,
The Bushman had himself a plan,
involving spare stockyard panels,
But how would he get them up there than?

After a bit more contemplation,
The Bushman changed his mind,
Grabbed some wire, pegs, and tools,
with a better idea out of his bind.

He soon had a fence of sorts,
across the wide cave mouth,
Standing he admired his handiwork,
then slogged his way to the south.

It took the bushland over a month,
to return to its pre-drought glory,
Following smaller rain showers,
  Bringing their own muddy story.






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