Competition

Second Prize

Magnificent Seven
by Max Merckenschlager
Caloote, SA

I stood in awe as land beneath me trembled
and waited where the furrow-horse would draw my father's plough,
to watch the finest working team assembled,
erupt in bold precision on the green and chocolate brow.

Eight bodies glistened brightly under tension;
with traces taut, their massive pistons drove the mouldboard on.
I stepped aside in mildest apprehension,
then passed their midday nosebags up, as eyes of liquid shone.

That scene from yester-year is sadly burning;
an adult now, my thankless task awaits me in the shade
of redgum-seven left won't be returning;
old veterans, who'll shuffle as they make their last parade.

With dry and dusty harness from the stable,
I walk the mile to slip their headgear on for one last time.
Five more the team must plod - I hope they're able;
a distance they'd have swallowed, had they walked it in their prime.

Behind me, on their painful trek they stumble
and pass a heap of ashes where some twenty months before,
old Harry dragged their honest mate and humble;
his death the last surrender, for we had a team no more.

We pensioned off our faithful, ageing horses,
to pasture out their final days - so noble at the time -
but found ourselves at odds with greater forces;
a lingered death we came to see was far the harsher crime.

They lift their heads and look toward the stables,
where father and his father say the years they spent were best;
with ribbons on the walls of teamster fables,
a place of warmth and harmony, of energy at rest.

Now watching their retreat in silent witness,
the cold blue-metal Fordson stands in passive victory.
They had its measure while they passed the fitness,
but time became their nemesis for lost supremacy.

It tears at me to see these legends falter,
their idle days and age have made them limping casualties;
high-steppers during working days in halter,
their nostrils flared and blowing, as they challenged turf and breeze.

The schoolhouse on our right has stopped me dreaming;
ahead, the railway loading ramp reminds me why I'm here.
An engine waits, its boiler boxes steaming -
the horses are unsettled and they toss their heads in fear.

I shut them in and stand there looking, checking,
and gently stroke their outstretched heads with loving words and pride.
Old Carb is close beside me on the decking;
I slip an arm around his neck - he taught the boy to ride.

A whistle blows, then wheels are slowly turning,
with shoo, shoo, shoo and hissing steam, a farm tradition ends.
I watch it disappear, my stomach churning,
then shed a tear for noble hearts of seven more-than-friends

I like to think they're grazing now in Heaven;
my father couldn't bank the cheque for faithful servants sold.
He passed it on, in memory of seven;
donated to our local home, where other friends grow old.