A Shepherd’s Vigil

The cottage stands alone.
Its verandah posts are askew,
the walls, here and there, buckled.
There is a coal-range at its heart,
and a wooden floor made shiny with wear.
At night, the old farmer came in alone.
He lit the range with cones and his gut with liquor.
Sometimes there was more of the latter.
He flung open the range door and eased his feet in.
No food. No music. No wife.
As the heat trickled out, he listened to the night:
the wind, the rustle of browntop;
sometimes, the scratch of a possum.
He heard his dogs, too, stretching the chain.
As the cold fell, so too his chin.
For the most part, it was a good night.

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