COUNTRY PUBS

Country pubs are works of art,

rivals to the stony banks and isolated

corrugated halls of prosperous country towns.

Country pubs are frills of lace

cascading down verandahs

to cartwheels at the gates

and convoluted timber posts

holding aloft iron mantillas

which screen the girls scurrying to work

up on the boards.

Country pubs have tiled murals

of flannelled cricketers and rugby men in boxer shorts

or muscled marvels with lantern jaws

sporting gloves beneath the gold leafed

Tooths and Tooheys and Wheatsheaf ales.

And somewhere round their skirts

will be a tunnel leading down

to cooler depths in which the kegs repose.

While kelpies sleep on coir mats around

the Saloon’s door and kids balance on

the silvered rails where once, tired horses waited.

And inside is dim, eye-adjusting light

rarely shafted by the sun

so that the bar retains its shine.

Mahogany and brass and curlique etchings in gilded

glass and row on row of

sea green bottles and thickened thimbles grooved.

While on the counter erect and ready for the tugging

the beer taps glow from constant use.

The sill’s worn dipped by countless feet,

likewise the polished halls off which

a score of wooden doors open into

bind-light rooms, with iron grates and patterned tiles,

ceiling roses too.

An iron bed spread body-bent towards the rug

upon the floor, dulled by the grime of

timber fellers, poorer cockies, richer squatters,

land agents, salesmen of liverfluke pills and

worm dips for sheep, honest travellers and rodeo riders,

circus sharps and country yokels

all just passing through.

Come down to dine. There’s damask

cloths starched and ironed and weighed down

by the silver.

China, thickly white is monogrammed,

a relic of the roaring days.

The tea is real, from man sized pots,

and you can snack on loaves of toast,

slabs of butter, half a pig and a dozen eggs

laid side by side with mountain steaks

and all the taties your mouth can hold.

Through the fly screened doors will push

the maids, hidden in aprons, rushing trays and

yellow cloths to dust the glasses near the water jugs.

Let’s raise our schooners, pots and pints

and have a jug or two.

Let’s bend the elbow, have a nip or just a tot

and follow with a chaser.

We’ll drink the health of country pubs,

pay them homage, give them their dues.

May they stand forever, framed and mounted

on the corners of our land.