I bet he used to ride for miles
Sitting now in the dialysis centre
Watching his blood being changed
Like oil, memories of watering horses
Riding on the head of the muster
Breaking off to reign in a buster
Dust and bindies in his eye
A working stockman
Seeing more of his land
Than a traditional owner ought to
Still the black memories
Of the newborn steer
That vaulted off a cliff
There is no salvation here
Only the work in the hard earth
And the hope it will be a good year.
