Thread: Under the Mountain Light

Under Mountain Light



Wild Jim came down from the hill, came down bent and white,
He had spent his life under southern mountain light
No more creeks to cross on frozen morning, under a punishing pack,
No more climbing through bush bent and aching, and falling back.
He was done with that now, too old to carry the load,
his trigger worn, his beard silvered, he could not be blowed
I leave it to you lot, he said, I’ll give it away,
you can take the rifle and the deer at dawn,
You can have the mountain in the mist at the last of day.

He told the warbler, the tui and the robin, he wont see them anymore
And they replied, won’t you go back Jim, back down the river, back along the track
He said damn the river, and damn the track,
Damn the Arawhata, and the Kaipo and the Pyke and the Skipper black,
While the mountains still glower and rivers rise and run
I’m getting out before the floods, and before the snow has come

But it was the taxman that got him,
And the mechanic with his bill,
The talk with friendly neighbours about their mothers will,
The cold drip from the nose
On a windy Dunedin morning,
While discussing roses and a rainy warning.

He didn’t say much for the last of March, till they discovered he had fled
Taking only worthless stuff like boots and rice and sacking for a bed
They wondered where he’d gone, and what to tell his daughter who lived in Gore,
Who barely remembered him anymore,
Except with pain and a heartfelt stitch,
About the day she'd called him a bastard son of a mongrel bitch.

Is there a back story to this @Carlsen Highway? Hope you, your family and friends are OK.

There is a back story, but its a fictional one. I'm just the writer; it's not about me.

very good,and pleased you n yours are OK.

That's pretty damn cool Mr Highway.

I'm not sure where the old fella in the poem went or why, but it puts me in mind of a retirement village scheme a mate and I came up with while supping at a dram or two in camp. We were discussing the aging process and rest homes etc. One of his relies had just entered care and was having trouble adjusting from a life of freedom and open skies.
Our plan was to have a series of staffed huts stocked with supplies. The idea is that the residents [outdoor types who want such a life] wander where they want -up river, down river, over the pass etc and then hunker down for a while at the next hut.
Each spring after the snows melt off staff come in and check for those who didn't make it to the next shelter.

I like that idea.

Neat... I like.

Kind of reminds me of a Graham Conner's Song "Sicilian Born" with the line, "Home is not where you were born, home is where a man is prepared to die"