The Sheep Who Taught Me Everything

 

-  The Sheep Who Taught Me Everything

I arrived at my partners Stanthorpe property knowing absolutely nothing about sheep.

Nothing about shearing sheds. Nothing about mustering. Nothing about feral mobs or drought feeding or the peculiar madness that comes with falling in love with livestock.

What I did know was that I’d just moved to a rundown property at the start of what would become a ten-year drought, inherited a mob of completely feral sheep, and didn’t even own a working dog.  It was, in hindsight, a bold life choice.

Our shearing shed was over a hundred years old and held together by little more than rust, hope, and Cobb & Co twitches. We weren’t on any shearing contractor’s books, but a local bloke named Jim, and a mate kindly fitted us in between other jobs. For over six years we hand-fed stock. It was a baptism of fire — and dust — and exhaustion.

Yet somehow, I fell in love.  Not immediately. Sheep are not naturally charming creatures. They don’t rush up for pats. They don’t make flattering noises. Mostly, they run away from you, occasionally straight into fences.  But slowly, quietly, they worked their way into my heart.

I moved out there with my Pit Bull, Khadizia, much to the horror of the neighbours.  “She’ll rip your sheep to pieces,” they warned.

Threats followed. Dire predictions. Dark looks. So we watched our dogs like hawks.

Jessie, our elderly Blue Heeler, was nearly blind. Samantha, an Irish Wolfhound/Bull Arab, had been bought by my partner’s son for pigging. And Khadizia was my beloved Pit Bull — soft-eyed, affectionate, and apparently destined to become a mother.  Not to puppies.  To lambs.

Khadizia fostered four poddy lambs: Bob, Emma Louise, Oliver James, and Boo. She washed them. She de-fleaed them. She took her role very seriously.

She was deeply offended when, as they grew, they began to resist being pinned to the ground and licked into submission.

I will never forget the look on her face the day Oliver James — nearly full-grown — barrelled straight into her and made it very clear he was no longer interested in maternal hygiene.

Another surprise arrived in the form of our first working dog, a Border Collie pup named Fiesta Anna, bred by local identity Dan Bougoure from excellent trial lines.

There was just one problem.  Anna was white. The sheep, after careful consideration, decided she was one of them.

Complications increased when I acquired a poddy lamb who happened to be black.  The sheep concluded, quite logically, that the black creature was the dog.

Mustering days became exercises in surreal chaos: sheep following the white dog, fleeing from the black lamb, and me standing in the middle wondering how my life had come to this.

Poor Midnight, the black lamb, was completely ostracised. Eventually, we placed her in the home paddock with a collection of misfits — a couple of feral goats - Sacha and Tenneille, a rescued Shetland pony - Fernando, and two ancient wethers – Bones and Hornless that everyone told me weren’t worth saving.  But I couldn’t let them die.

Those two old boys — Hornless and Bones (plus a third later dubbed Hitler) — became the turning point.  They came when called. They followed me like dogs. They responded to the rattle of a corn tin and a cooee. Before long, I discovered that if the lead sheep moved, the mob moved.

One afternoon, I stood on the front verandah and called my three boys…. And seven hundred and forty-six sheep came with them.  I didn’t feel clever. I felt… trusted.

Over time, we added more dogs. Buster, a second-hand Kelpie who would only muster right-to-left because that was all he’d ever been taught. And later, a little red Kelpie pup Ralph Patrick, from our Tenterfield shearer.

Ralph’s life was heartbreakingly short. We believe he picked up bait regurgitated by a crow — something we never used on our property. Losing him hurt.

But that place had a way of doing that…. It burrowed under your skin.

Life has moved on, as it always does. I no longer live at Springdale.  These days my “sheep” are a mob of OAPs in an over-55s village.

They are hard to muster. Bloody intractable and some definitely have attitude problems.  So, really, not that different.

But every so often, when I hear the wind in dry grass or smell dust after rain, I’m back on that verandah, rattling the corn tin, calling my boys, and watching a mob of sheep walk towards me.

And at that moment, at that time, I am happy, and I smile.

IMAGES

Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

Are they being mustered silently beneath a silver moon

by dogs long gone whose spirits still remain?

Can you hear the thrumming canter?  Mobs of sheep upon the move

unseen by us, but sensed, crossing the plain.

Do you hear the bull whip cracking in the dark deserted night

as long departed stockmen move the flock?

Do you think you hear a bridle’s jingle coming up the track?

Are spirit horses pushing up the stock?

 

Could these paddocks tell a story?  Well, they’ve seen a thing or two -

they’d tell of sparse treed hills and dusty plains.

They've seen so many perish from the fires, and droughts and floods,

  their bones now ground to dust, all that remains.

And the ghostly wraiths of dogs are here.  Miss Jess and Ralph and Sam,

 old Blacky.  All those dogs who’ve gone before.

 So the image is not hard to see when at night they arise

all keen to work the ovine flock once more.

 

It’s been sold once again this place and stands here lonely still,

no warming fire’s reflection in the house -

and sad the love that made this dwelling a welcoming home,

has gone –it’s now abode to rat and mouse.

The ghostly dogs are lonely.  Loyal hounds - they linger near,

they’ve never wandered off upon their own.

They are listening in the darkness.  Each one cocks an anxious ear

for sounds to tell them they are not alone.

 

A cold wind's beating on the hill, flogging the frosted plains,

 its icy fingers tap on windows bare.

I recall ghostly animals still yearning for their home,

abandoned, left behind with none to care.

When thinking of those better times, my wandering mind goes back.

Such memories I have, they will not pass

with sadness I recall each much-loved animal’s sweet face.

In peaceful sleep at rest beneath the grass.

 

I hear the muffled bark, the clank of harness

and in the night see coming down the track,

the sheep, my dogs and horses.  Cherished memories

are all that's left for there’s no going back.

 

 

…  My Lost Place.

Are places ever truly lost if they remain in someone’s memory- in someone’s heart?

My lost place is an old sheep property-my home for only five years, yet my karma.
The place my heart and soul had been searching for-finally found, fleetingly lived, and now lost to me.

Traprock country, though harsh and unforgiving in drought, is magnificent, beautiful, and resplendent in good times. New grass cloaks the land in green, dotted with white wisps of Merino sheep, and scattered with hard, unyielding grey granite boulders that litter the slopes like a giant’s marbles. Above, in brilliant azure skies, bronze Wedge-tailed Eagles ride the thermals, surveying the land below for rabbits or weak and newborn lambs - food for their survival and for their young.

Towering hill crests are guarded by ring-barked gums that stand like sentinels, pointing the way to who knows where. Cleared acres of open space give way to hills thick with scrub. Deep gullies cradle waterholes edged with shivery grass beneath eroded granite cliffs. Steep, snake-like tracks wind down to the sweet waters below. Paths worn over time by thousands of sheep, deer, and feral goats on their daily trek to quench their thirst.

Sundown National Park, with its heavily wooded slopes, granite boulders, hidden waterholes, and secret tracks, and its mystic spiritual links with the Dreamtime, sits right on the doorstep of ‘Springdale’. Hidden caves hold rock paintings of roo and snake. Echoes, faint and imagined yet remembered, of tribal songs and ancient voices. The scar of the dingo fence is always visible, winding its way through the trees, a useful landmark if you’re bushed.

The sonorous rumble of ewes emerging wraithlike through early morning mist, calling their lambs to follow them for their first drink at the dam. They leave silver trails in dew-drenched grass as they pass in single file, nose to tail, heads nodding in time with their steps.

The rattle of gravel. A cloud of red dust. The rumble of wheels across the grid as a neighbour heads for town - always accompanied by a beep-beep of the horn, or sometimes a shrill whistle. Three days now and no other vehicle has passed the gate.

Roos-big greys keeping pace with the car along the roadside before bounding effortlessly over barbed wire and across the paddock. Cute, pretty-faced wallabies - small, dainty, sweet. They stand with heads up, ears pricked, watching your approach, then bolt into the scrub hell-for-leather seconds before you reach them.

And the reality.

Sadness.
Despair.

Lambs lost. Babies who had barely drawn breath, killed by fox, pig, crow, and eagle despite every effort to keep them safe. Old ewes weakened by drought and mired in mud; eyes taken by crows-a bullet their last mercy. A harsh country where each death equals dollars desperately needed.

The misery of losing a dog-a four-legged mate. Heartbreaking, yet almost inevitable. Working dogs are worth two men. Without their willing, eager help, no farmer can manage this country. They are controllers of the flock, guardians, loyal, loving, faithful companions - sometimes your only mate for days on end. Some never understand that snakes can kill. The curious succumb.

Wild pigs - always a problem, fear nothing. They kill lambs and weakened sheep. Carrion eaters. Silent, stealthy, deadly. They flatten fences, root up good pasture, ruin grain fields. Cunning enough to drop behind a fallen log until the hunter passes, then explode into motion and flee. Fair enough.  The fight or flight instinct. A smart dog will bail them until the farmer can dispatch them with a well-aimed bullet. But many a game dog, too cocky, too slow, or not pig-smart has been lost to these black bulldozers.

This is my lost place. My country.

I grieve for her every day - but she lives forever in my heart.

 

 

 

 

THEY ALSO SERVE WHO SIT AND WAIT

 

Tommy Watson, age 14, worked as a telegram delivery boy for the London postal service in 1916. It was supposed to be an easy job—ride his bicycle, deliver messages, earn money to help his widowed mother. But in July 1916, after the disastrous first day of the Somme, Tommy's job became delivering death. The War Office telegrams all looked identical—small manila envelopes with "OHMS" printed on them. Everyone knew what they meant. When people saw Tommy riding his bicycle down their street, they prayed he would pass their house. When he stopped, when he walked to a door with an envelope in his hand, families knew before he even spoke. Their son, their husband, their father was dead.  On July 5, 1916, Tommy delivered forty-three death telegrams in one day—forty-three families destroyed in eight hours of work.

 

THEY ALSO SERVE WHO SIT AND WAIT .. Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

Each day beside her window she would sit and wait with bated breath

watching for the young bloke who had become the harbinger of death

with telegrams clutched in his hand, a sad expression on his face.

Scarce old enough to do the job, far less give comfort or solace.

From time to time, she heard the cries, the screams, the weeping – no surcease,

and weekly now they posted lists of all the soldiers now deceased.

Black armbands flourished everywhere, and ‘widow’s weeds’ were often seen

Now returning from fields of France – maimed warriors – their wounds obscene.

 

She rocked the cradle by her feet, she prayed each night “God keep him safe’’

and how the waiting wore her down, the constant stress her nerves did chafe.

But little did she know of how much trauma those soldiers endured,

for little news was sent back home – the censor had the final word.

They also serve, who sit and wait  -  and now one hundred years has passed

and still men fight on foreign soil, and still the peace declared don’t last.

And no man wins and no land gains – the loss is still by far too high.

One has to wonder why it is no lessons learnt, nor sense applied.

 

The weapons in Afghanistan exceed by far those used in France

More technologically designed to swiftly kill – far more advanced.

And yet the death of men has never altered – life simply expires

whilst left behind are those who care – against whom seems fate has conspired.

They also serve who sit and wait and serve in silence year by year.

Life for them is never the same.  Sad smiles now hide a hidden fear

that history will yet again repeat itself, and at what cost?

If mankind will not learn from wars – then our humanity is lost.

 

27.01.2026

MY LOST PLACE – MY COUNTRY

 MY LOST PLACE – MY COUNTRY … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

https://soundcloud.com/maureen-clifford-scribblybark-poetry/my-lost-place-my-country

Lost places … Are places ever lost if they remain in someone’s memory – someone’s heart?

My lost place is an old sheep property – my home for only five years but my Karma.  The place that my heart and soul had been searching for – finally found, fleetingly enjoyed and now lost – to me.

Traprock country, though harsh and dry in drought is magnificent, beautiful and resplendent in good times.  New grass cloaks the land in green, and it is dotted with white wisps of Merino sheep, and the hard unyielding grey granite boulders that litter the slopes like a giant’s marbles.   Above in the brilliant azure skies bronze Wedge tail Eagles fly high on the thermals, surveying the land below for rabbits or weak and new born lambs; the food for their survival and to feed their own young.

Towering crests of the hills are guarded by ring barked Gum trees that stand like sentinels pointing the way to who knows where.  Cleared acres of open space, and hills covered in thick scrub.  Deep gullies, with water holes edged with shivery grass beneath eroded granite cliffs, with steep snakelike tracks, wending down to the sweet waters below, tracks that have been worn over time by thousands of sheep, deer and feral goats on their daily trek to quench their thirsts.

Sundown National Park with its heavily wooded slopes and granite boulders, hidden waterholes and secret tracks, and its mystic spiritual links with the Dreamtime, sits right on the doorstep of “Springdale’.  Hidden caves with rock paintings of roo and snake.  The echoes faint – imagined – remembered, of tribal songs and native voices. The scar of the dingo fence, always visible winding its way through the trees – a useful landmark to head for if bushed.

The sonorous rumble of the ewes as they emerge wraithlike through the early morning mist, calling their lambs to go for their morning drink at the dam, leaving silver trails behind them in the dew drenched grass as they pass by in single file, nose to tail – heads nodding in time with their walking.

The rattle of gravel, a cloud of red dust and the rumble of wheels over the grid as a neighbour heads for town – always accompanied by the 'beep beep' of the horn or sometimes a shrill whistle as he passes by your place.  Three days now and no other vehicle has passed your gate.

Roos – big greys keeping pace with the car along the roadside and then bounding with ease over the barbed wire fence and across the paddock.  Cute pretty faced wallabies - small, dainty, sweet.  They stand heads up; ears pricked watching your approach – then pound off into the scrub hell for leather seconds before you reach them.

The reality – Sadness – Despair as lambs are lost.  Babies who had barely drawn breath killed by fox and pig and crow and eagle despite the best efforts to keep them all safe.  Old ewes, weakened by drought and mud mired – eyes taken by crows – a bullet their last reward. A harsh country with each death equating to dollars that are desperately needed.
The misery of losing a dog, a four legged mate.  So heartbreaking but somewhat inevitable.  Working dogs are worth two men.  Without their willing and eager assistance no farmer can manage in this country.  They are the controllers of the flock, guard dogs, loyal, loving and faithful companions. Sometimes your only Mate for days on end.  Some never understand that snakes can kill.  The curious succumb.

Wild pigs, (always a problem to farmers) fear nothing. They kill lambs and weakened sheep. Carrion eaters - silent, stealthy and deadly killers who flatten fences, root up good pasture, ruin fields of grain.  They are cunning – smart enough to drop down and hide behind a fallen log until the hunter passes by, then spring up and run away, which is fair enough – the fight or flee syndrome. A smart dog will bail them until the farmer can dispatch them swiftly with a well aimed bullet. But many a game dog, either too cocky, too slow or not pig smart has been lost to these black bulldozers.

This is my lost place. My country.  I grieve every day for her – but she lives forever in my heart.

needs grow and alter
the winter of life takes hold
changing perceptions

THE COLOURS OF AUSTRALIA... Haiku

 THE COLOURS OF AUSTRALIA... Haiku

Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

beneath char grey clouds
leaning over black water –
three old she oaks watch

rusted red ironbarks
clinging to a stony ridge –
tough as nails

the scent of honey
kilometres of yellow –
melaleuca blooms

 SURVIVORS - BUT FOR HOW LONG .. Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

There are few enough to tell of between fires and the traps,

every day they have remaining is a miracle perhaps

a bonus to their lives I wonder do they realize

that their world's now in a state of near collapse.

This mob are simply known to us as the Kiandra Greys,

their heritage is long and goes back to early days

descendants of a stallion that ran at Pigeon Square

with fifteen mares with which to mate and graze.

In the Goandara region the horses were let run

so that every year old George Day would have his bit of fun

with his sons, catching yearlings - until his lease was closed

the horses then left free to laze in sun.

The Dunn family once laid claim to the red roans you see.

Yarrangobilly Caves the leasehold for this family.

Leases in the nineteen sixties no longer were renewed

Fences fell and their horses soon ran free.

The horses on the Long Plains run to Chestnut, Black and Bay

their heritage can be traced back to early mining days,

when Terence Murray turned some loose around old Coolamine,

Currango's now where their descendants graze .

It's sad to say today that you might see the mobs together,

round the saltlicks in the trap yards which are set for their demise,

for horses love the saltlicks and sweet tasting molasses

which is set out to attract them, and they cluster round like flies.

The snow leases now are all closed and fire has scarred the plains

though Mother Nature is adept at repairing with rains

that fall, and so a green tinge grows, new leaves cover the trees

and wildflowers grow over brumby remains.

And lost forever are iconic brumbies truth to tell,

Paleface and his mob disappeared - we know not where they fell,

doubtless that Paleface did his best to save them from the fires

but alas it seems flames were the herds death knell.

And now the few that do remain of our Kiandra Greys

are being targeted again and who knows how the days

will pan out for the time that's left for them at liberty.

Now feral classified - to paraphrase.

So if you want to see them running in a glorious throng

on Kosciusko, best go now - you'll hear the Currawong

and Dingoes sing a mournful dirge - a brumby eulogy

for our Government don't want them and times singing their swansong.

Scatter my ashes 'cross the plains on good old Aussie loam

place my three dogs beside me so I don't travel alone

where I'll hear the soughing wind through the gnarled snowy gums;

feel the earth shiver 'neath the hooves of galloping brums.

There's a blue sky above me and beneath me virgin soil

I'll rest now in my country after many years of toil ...

this is my land, and their land and no better place than home

to rest when one is weary ... where perhaps brumbies still roam.

10.5.2022

THE SURVIVOR

 THE SURVIVOR .... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

Standing proud in all his glory 'gainst a background of burnt trees,

with dried mud upon his burnished hide - tail flowing in the breeze,

ears alert and pricked for danger, muscles tensed ready to run

this survivor of the fires, has once more to mountains come.

Posterboy, the name they gave him, that was many years ago

and they always looked out for him when to mountains they did go

with their cameras at the ready, and sadness within both hearts

for the fires took so many - young and old wiped off the charts.

But today they came across him and two hearts were filled with joy,

for they feared that he and his mares had been lost, their Posterboy.

And yet here he was before them - a proud stallion in his prime,

and pray God the traps don't get him - may he live a long, longtime.

There are some will never see him, never see a brumby free

save through photographs on media and wildlife shows on TV.

And it's hard to share the feeling being in their presence brings

but it heightens all one's senses, your heart beats like it has wings.

May they live here in their mountains where the Wedgetail eagles fly,

and the dingoes roam the grasslands and Corroboree frogs cry.

May they always call this place their home and may they long be free

for they are part of our heritage - our own Aussie Brumby.

WHEN THE COOTAMUNDRA WATTLE BLOOMS AGAIN

 

WHEN THE COOTAMUNDRA WATTLE BLOOMS AGAIN …. Maureen Clifford ©The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

Roses bloomed in profusion on the trellis.

Shades of yellow, red and pink and snowy white.

The air was softly scented by these colourful beauties,

but the wattle blossom filled him with delight.

He’d taken cattle on the road, for they’d run out of feed

 and the balance in the bank was getting low.

She stayed home with the children to keep the homefires going,

to protect their lambs from death by fox and crow.

 

She waved goodbye from their home’s front verandah.

“You’ll be right” she heard him say as he drew rein.

“I’ll only be a month or so and then love I’ll be back

just as Cootamundra wattle blooms again.

Take care of yourself and our kids and keep the rifles loaded,

don't forget to shed the ewes and newborn lambs.

I've chopped and stacked enough wood, to keep the fires burning

 if there's trouble Jimmy Mac knows where I am.

 

 

I ‘ll return when Cootamundra wattle blooms over the plain,

and together we can laze away a day.

Wait for my return, keep watch; I won’t be long my darling

then beneath the wattle blossoms we can lay.”

 

The endless days weighed heavy on her shoulders,

 darkness of night now seemed to linger long.

She missed her husbands' company, this man she held so dear

though this harsh and lonely life had made her strong.

She knew that he’d be back when golden wattle bloomed again,

when a sea of yellow blooms festooned the track.

He would return home to her and their homestead on the plain.

For the scent of wattle always called him back.

 

Above the distant hills the dark clouds gathered,

In the distance lightning flashed and lit the sky.

The smell of sulphur lingered in the hot and humid air,

as rain plopped onto soil dusty and dry.

Heaven opened its sluice gates, blessed rain filled the contours

Rusting gutters overflowed, the tank was full.

Water trickled into dams that had been dry and empty.

Ran the creeks that had been dank and stagnant pools.

 

I‘ll return when Cootamundra wattle blooms over the plain,

and together we can laze away a day.

Wait for my return, keep watch; I won’t be long my darling

then beneath the wattle blossoms we can lay.”

 

 

A mile from home he tried to cross a gully.

He’d been on the road to home now for a week.

He didn’t want to wait another minute or an hour,

separated from his woman by this creek.

His tired horse lost its footing, the causeway had washed away.

It fell hard and in the currents flow horse rolled.

The brave and valiant animal worked desperately to rise.

but alas its rider relinquished his hold.

 

His body tossed and tumbled in the water

midst debris washed downstream from the higher hill.

Discarded by the torrent on a bank of river scree

magpies sang a eulogy o’er body still.

They found him in the morning when his horse had made it home

to the front gate where it waited patiently

with knees all torn and bleeding and no saddle on its back.

What had happened was for all quite plain to see.

 

His plain and simple coffin four mates carried.

On the top his boots, Akubra and a spray

of Cootamundra wattle shining brightly in the sun,

as they lowered him into his final grave.

‘When Cootamundra wattle blooms again love I’ll be back’

the last words he spoke to her just as he left.

True to his word he now lay ‘neath them alongside the track

with his girl kneeling beside him quite bereft.

 

 

He'd returned as the Cootamundra wattle bloomed again.

Now forever in a lonely grave he lay.

She kept watch as she had promised o'er the one she called her darling,

as she would until her time came, come what may.