Walls of galvanised iron sheet,
windows, bare open spaces,
six rough-hewn pews, each eight feet long
where each family sat in their places.
In sapping, stifling summer heat,
not a single blow-fly stirred.
The congregation sat, transfixed,
intent on every word.
One twenty in the shade for week
and still all over-dressed
in suits and ties, stockings and hats,
all garments neatly pressed.
The little country Church was led
by the Anglican bloke from town.
He only drove out once each month
on roads of dusty brown.
Granny Betts had done the flowers
while her Pearl tickled ivory notes.
After the service they shared a meal
and quenched their arid throats.
Once the Rector left for town,
out came the tennis gear.
Such a worthy social occasion
and they'd travelled from far and near.
That Pearly Betts excelled at the game,
in high demand for the doubles.
The oldies compared their medical notes,
each bewailing the other's troubles.
Afternoon tea with cakes were served
by a competitive mob of cooks.
Roderick McKenzie quizzed a bloke
in how Bannisters kept their books.
Such a long way home to drive,
they left quite a while before dark.
Roads would soon be covered by kangaroos
and battling them was no lark.
Clouds of dust marked the long red roads
past the oldghost town and the dam.
So glad I that don't live there now,
yes, I really, truly am.
© 2018 cherryk
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