Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WHERE SILENCE REIGNS, by W. A. WOODS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WHERE SILENCE REIGNS, by                    
First Line: Out back, where silence reigneth, on the great grey western plains
Last Line: While the ever-creaking saddle is the only sound we hear.
Alternate Author Name(s): Drayman, John
Subject(s): Animals; Death; Desolation; Horses; Prairies; Dead, The; Plains


OUT back, where silence reigneth, on the great grey Western plains
(Those "sunlit plains" of Clancy's), where it hardly ever rains;
Where the traveller's always thirsty and the water never near—
The creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.
The quart-pot doesn't rattle, and the stirrup doesn't clink,
The emu stalks in freedom, and it's far too hot to think;
Where tracks are dry and dusty, and the air is seldom clear,
The creaking of the saddle is a lonesome sound to hear.

The fences reach to sundown and are mostly built of wire,
And the sun goes down each evening like a glowing disc of fire;
When the water-bag is empty, and the tucker dry and dear,
The creaking of the saddle is a mournful sound to hear.
Moving specks in distance hazy we regard for hours in doubt,
Till we find they're teams and tank-scoops shifting camp to "further out";
And the quaintly dancing brolgas at our coming show no fear—
While the creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.

Where the tumbling roly-poly of its sport ne'er seems to tire,
And mocking lakes of water rouse the sunburnt traveller's ire,
Our knocked-up dog lies painting 'neath a mulga in the rear,
And the creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.
The dusty streaks of sweat-lines cake along our horse's flank,
And the only break of level is the mudheap at the tank;
When our seat feels damp and sticky and our spine feels somewhat queer—
The creaking of the saddle is a wretched sound to hear.

Stretched in shade of gidgee-bushes lies a great red kangaroo,
Sleeping through the sultry noonday while a doleful-looking crow
With a voiceless gape salutes us as we come and disappear,
And the creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.
For miles and miles around us spreads the silent plain and grey,
And we sigh for rippling water or the rattle of a dray;
E'en the sight of river timber would relax our lot austere,
When the ever-creaking saddle is the only sound we hear.

Half sleeping and half waking we dream of shady lanes,
The whistle of the steamboats or the cheerful rush of trains;
Cool, green nooks in quiet gullies, ice-cold springs and restful cheer—
But the sadly creaking saddle is the only sound we hear.
So we crawl along, in silence cursing "Banjo's" great grey plain,
And the heat, and dust, and distance, then we curse them all again;
"And their kindly voices greet him" seems like sarcasm or a sneer—
For the creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.

Sad and sultry leagues of silence, bounded by a shimmering sky,
Make a man feel very lonely, very small and very dry;
We would cry in desolation but we cannot shed a tear,
And the creaking of the saddle is the only sound we hear.
As we feel the dreary silence stealing o'er our senses dim,
We imagine we are sinking and would rather sink than swim;
And we have a vague, weird fancy that Death is hovering near,
While the ever-creaking saddle is the only sound we hear.





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