Written by Dick Roberts
With a wrinkled grin and old dark skin,
Dreaming of days long since gone,
He has his memories to thank.
He remembers the big old stockcamps,
And the droving days now gone.
Dusty days and forgotten ways,
And the night riders songs.
The smell of smoke, as the cattle poke,
He knew the day was at its end.
When the tailor bedded the horses down,
And the tucker was on the pan.
In his swag beside the coals at night,
He’d think of the day just gone.
Stars shining like a chandelier,
He’s dreamtime still lives on.
His words described a country,
That many would never see.
The stories he told as the day would unfold,
Were as Australian as an old gum tree.
He spoke of his people of long ago,
And how they travelled throughout this land.
How they found the water holes,
And survived in the desert sands.
Nature’s resources, his love of horses,
His belonging to the land that is his home.
His ancestors stories, his own birth right,
In this country that he calls his own.
The sun would set on the river that day,
As I held the old man’s hand.
His old eyes closed, his heart beat slowed,
As he drifted off to his dreaming land.
Some say the land is dead and silent,
And the birds no longer sing their songs,
But It’s those that haven’t listened,
That never hear the call of the currawongs.
Nelle's journey 