( a note to a memory)
….so anyway, I went back;
packed up the car and just drove
for hours, along what used to be the track,
and found it bloody bitumen…but it led to nowhere
I remembered.
I guess they made the road all-weather
for travellers to the big town up the road
because the place I wanted wasn’t there –
just tired and silent lines of houses
on streets wide enough to turn a bullock dray.
Two old dogs lay outside the pub, one raised his head
the other scratched as I walked past, into the
cavern of the public bar. I recalled the women
had to sit apart back then, in what was called
‘the Ladies Lounge’
and listen to the men tell bawdy jokes, pretending
not to hear.
I ordered Margarita, but changed it to a lemonade
because the barman smirked and raised an eyebrow
when I mentioned Lime…and all the while
the red dust hung suspended in the air.
That’s not changed – the dust,
it’s still everywhere, coating every surface
and, when the wind blows, gets in your
eyes and nose and food
to add a little crunch.
I must have dozed, for I’m sure I saw you
walk in through the door but then I shook my head
to find a weather creased old man, who tipped
his hat and ordered XXXX – so I knew it wasn’t you –
you always ordered Johnny Walker Red.
It’s close on 40 years and now the smells
of beer and sweat co-mingle with the
dust and midday heat, to flood my memory
with how it used to be.
They’re right…you can’t go back;
just visit for a day.
Vickie Farquhar (c) 2005.