The Stockman

The sun was in the summer grass, the Coolibahs* were twisted steel; the stockman paused beneath their shade and sat upon his heel, and with the reins looped through his arm he rolled tobacco in his palm. His horse stood still, His cattle-dog tongued in the shadow of the tree, and for a moment on the plain Time waited for the three, and then the stockman licked his fag and Time took up his solar swag. I saw the stockman mount and ride, across the mirage on the plain; and still that timeless moment brought fresh ripples to my brain; it seemed in that distorting air I saw his grandson sitting there.