Harry’s Farmyard

Carol Reffold © 1998

The last time I went down to Melbourne
I found out old Harry had died,
The first chance I got to be on my own
I sat on my bed and I cried.

Old Harry and I – we’d never met
But Harry’d had a dream
He collected old harness and hames and stuff
And worked up this fantastic scheme
For ten bucks a car load, they’d come to his farm
And be fed on fresh scones and cream
While they watched this living display come to life
. . . horses and men, as a team.

The jingle of trace chains,
The smell of Earth,
Birds following that freshly tilled soil.
That, safe, gentle, sound of the men and their beasts
And those feelings inspired by toil.

As I grieved, as I sat on the edge of my bed,
I remembered some special old words.
I remembered ‘feathers’
Being fluffy ‘round Dobbin’s feet –
Not specifically anchored to birds.

I never was frightened by Dobbin
As he wuffled and snuffled my cheek
I remember my Nan, holding my hand
As she took me down for a peek.

His big tummy rumbled and grumbled,
It was soft, but solid and fat,
His top lip felt like rich velvet
When Dad lifted me up for a pat.

Yeah. Harry’s dead. Good on you Harry,
You tried to keep the past up to date
They’re flogging his farm on Saturday
Try to look before they padlock the gate.

The Clydesdales, the harness, the trace chains,
Lots seventy to a hundred-thirteen,
To be auctioned! Sold up! Scattered!
God! I hope you know what I mean!

It’s a tragedy a lifetime’s collection just gets sold up
Because somebody’s died
And it grieves me to feel that the value
of Harry’s life’s been denied.

So all you collectors of relics, make a Will,
Don’t let your stuff just get sold!
Because my friends, those collections
are more valuable than gold.

“It’s a load of rusty old rubbish.”
That’s what the agent described
as she handed me the brochure with
“For Sale - Harry’s Farmyard” inscribed.

 

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