THE BACK VERANDAH

 

THE BACK VERANDAH 

Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

The house is shabby, old and worn as is the back verandah.

One looks out over paddocks green from on the back verandah.

The dogs sleep there with the pet roos, plus saddles, hats and worn-out shoes

and lots of other stuff there too.  On the back verandah.

 

The orphaned lamb’s line up for feed, on the back verandah.

The dogs with wagging tails take heed, from the back verandah.

The boss is putting on his boot; he’s got the rifles set to shoot.

He tells the dogs “Get in the Ute”.  From the back verandah.

 

The western sun shines fiercely down on latticed back verandah.

The missus sits there shelling peas, on the back verandah.

The wood stove warms, its burning logs are simmering roo meat for the dogs and chooks are scratching round for frogs, beneath the back verandah.

 

The mauve wisteria twists and curls, festooning back verandah.

The kookaburra laughs and calls out near the back verandah.

The butcher bird is sitting there he watches with a beady stare

as missus throws meat in the air from the back verandah.

 

A squeaky rocking chair is swaying on the west verandah

as missus takes the washing off the lines on back verandah.

Maccas on the radio, Sunday papers softly blow

like scattered leaves, as breezes flow along the back verandah.

 

Sol slowly setting in the west, paints red the back verandah.

Six chooks return to roost and nest, departing back verandah.

Five dogs replete with their nights feed, slink to their beds to take their ease,

to snore and fart and scratch at fleas out on the back verandah.