Hilda Oakley

Australian author and poet

   Jan 06

The Good Old Days

As he watched the crackling fire,
The flames leapt, higher and higher,
Showing brilliant hues amongst the glowing blaze,
Warmth now enveloping him amidst the swirling haze.

His faithful dog warming his feet,
Feeling drowsy he succumbed to sleep,
Among the tall eucalyptus trees,
One with nature his body and soul at ease.

He began dreaming of the former years,
Where mankind could live free of fears,
Building log-cabins in the bush back then,
Though far away, down in the glen.

Life was modest with nought a care,
Food was plentiful though simple fare,
Living was earned by the sweat of your brow,
With horses towing the stump-jump plough.

Everyone helped their fellow man,
Everything seemed to fit into plan,
When battlers scraped and were down on their luck,
Friends rallied around and showed rare pluck.

Bartering goods was the usual norm,
The midwife delivered any new born,
Those were the days of love and caring,
Giving to others, always sharing.

Any food you may have left over,
Was shared with a swagman or a wandering drover,
People once more were returning to the good old days,
Getting back to basics and rethinking their ways.

On awakening from this refreshing dream,
He ate his breakfast beside the stream,
Then whistling to his dog named zac,
He continued his wandering down the track.

Hilda Oakley
Copyright © 25.11.1997

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