1.Old Jude
Old Jude - a funny woman,
Must be in her 50's they say,
Although a sorry site lately,
She'd have been a catch in her day.
Old Jude comes to the pub to talk,
About her bird, her dog, her cat.
But mostly about her lost love,
Who left at the drop of a hat.
She drinks cask wine and sherry,
Puffs on cigars at the bar.
Sometimes she will read the paper,
Looking at old men from afar.
Skin like fruit left out in the sun,
Powered dry to a chalky white.
Red lipstick stains her mouth and teeth,
Eyebrows painted as black as night.
Her hair, long and gray mostly,
The ends, a splash of dull red.
She wears it in a clumsy bun,
Like a big birdsnest, some have said.
Covered in mothballs, her old clothes,
Once maybe pink or green or blue,
Now faded a nothing colour.
A hole grows in her left shoe.
Old Jude leaves around 5 o'clock.
Whisking herself home before dark.
Hands full of shopping, she wanders,
Walking on towards her dog's bark.
Once there, she feeds her dog, cat, mouse...
Whilst the pub beckons from afar.
She hangs her clothing for the next day,
When she returns home, to the bar.
Nadine Tisdell, 2000
2.Campfire Ghosts
They go through life from day to day,
Holding mateship as a Bible.
From bleak routine they will not stray,
It's the key to their survival.
They wipe the sweat from off the face,
Blackened with dirt, their skins are dry.
Not one of them can be disgraced,
Each leathered man's head is held high.
Lots to be done about the place,
The shearers look round in wonder.
Can't afford to give a day's grace,
None want the farm to go under.
Once the thirsty work is over,
And they have nothing left to do,
They grab the dog they called Rover,
And head to the hills with some brew.
They ride in mateship side by side,
The black and the brown and the white.
At the hills they meet to confide,
And laughter echoes in the night.
Each worn face the fire does light,
As they relax, drink, sing a song...
Without warning, they steal away.
As Campfire Ghosts, they belong.
Nadine Tisdell, 2000
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