It was when the grind and grumble,

Of those wagons passed this way,

The colour-sergeant’s bark was never meek,

The sighing strain of steel,

That was bound fast to the wheel,

Was melody to rumble and to squeak.

.

Those tracks are overgrown,

Now the earth reclaims its own,

Where once the horse and oxen made the haul.

Scarring virgin soil and sod,

They spread the word of God,

Sounded bugles, spread the gospel,

Mounts were shod.

.

Now those ruts are overgrown,

The shiftless winds have blown,

And trails they scorched are now as once they were,

And for all they fought and won,

It is all gone back and done,

The virgin soil is as it always was.

.

Now the trail is good and dead,

As are men who died and bled,

And the veldt returns to what it was before.

Now those four winds on my face,

Obliterate my race,

And men who shoved the ox-carts ~

All because…..

.

Because  ..  ..  .. an awesome word,

It’s the haunting sound I hear,

The breezes claim the kopje and the plain.

Aye, the barren drift is hostage,

To the old and ghostly legions,

And the shriek and groan,

Of harness and of chains.

.

Now I look in vain to see,

Where those ancient ruts might be,

But they’re blown away,

To God alone knows where.

Now the earth is pulled across them,

The seeds are spread across them,

And the wails of phantom columns fill the air.

MICHAEL WALSH POETRY

MICHAEL WALSH BOOKS. To MAXIMISE YOUR SAVINGS BE SURE TO CLICK ‘ORDER NOW: https://michaelwalshbooks.wordpress.com/