DUST AND DREAMS

DUST AND DREAMS

The old man sat, in silence

upon the dusty floor

not heeding sounds around him

he dreamt of days of yore -

For he'd once been a stockman

on a station, rather grand,

working mobs of cattle,

then became a leading hand.

They say he was the fastest

that the folks had ever seen,

fastest rider in the country, 

he was handsome, tall and lean.

Many a tale they still told

of deeds that he had done

and of how his future lay before him…

till he shot the squatter's son.

It happened, one day in summer

when the land was wrapped in heat.

It was dusty, dry and barren

and the flies were quite a treat.

They'd rounded up the cattle

brought the stragglers back to camp,

and were resting by the campfire

dreaming of creekbeds, cool and damp.

There were just two days to ride now

then he would leave the trail

and ride back to the old homestead

for he had to check the mail.

Such a long time he'd been waiting

to hear from his sweetheart, once again.

He hoped he soon would see her

and his longing turned to pain.

Then they started yarning, 

as they sat there by the fire… 

they talked of those they left behind them

till they began to tire.

They'd been on the trail for weeks now

they'd had quite a way to go,

yet this was the first occasion

that they spoke of those they know.

One man talked of Betsy

another of Mary-Lou,

the third kept praising Sally,

that's when the tempers flew.

For they surely weren't mistaken

as each talked of their girl,

her sweet and friendly nature,

or her hair, in one long curl.

It soon became apparent

to each of these weary men,

that the girl he hoped to marry

had been unfaithful once again.

Like animals they scuffled

round the campfire, then and there

 and then a single gunshot

rang through the still night air.

One man lay there, bleeding

wounded from the stockman's gun

his last words were "tell Sally…"

He died, the squatter's son.

So, many years ago, they tried him

for the deed of that sad night.

If only he'd never met her,

there would have been no terrible fight.

But as the old man sat in silence,

upon the dusty floor,

his head slowly sank, dejectedly…

his dreams would be no more.

Crissouli (c)