Home...past the end of rail and track,
the dry, harsh, red dirt, cruel outback,
fresh food and dairy at a lack,
mum's cooking stood the test.
With powdered milk her cupboard cow
she made desserts her kids to wow,
creamy luscious, great...somehow,
her ice cream was the best.
No schools for any of her brood,
such isolation, distance rude,
lessons by mail, mum's teaching crude,
was like that way out west.
The wool paid well one lonesome year.
'We'll have a holiday, you hear?'
said dad, making his pleasure clear,
'We'll drive East to the coast.'
Four kids, excited for the trip...
the youngest dropped her bottom lip,
so many tears down cheeks did drip
'til dad began to boast.
'Wait 'til you see the waves rush in
and hear the sea gulls make their din,
ice creams on wheels (he watched her grin),
with music on the side'
The road to Grandma's place at end,
two weeks with that old dear they'd spend,
brown bodies with wild surf to blend,
explored for shells low tide.
So much that little girl had heard
of Mr Whippy...she was stirred
and then the strains of Greensleeves heard,
the wee child couldn't wait.
Excitedly they paid their money,
was it like mum's...sweetened with honey?
No, swirled in cones, a little runny.
The child did hesitate.
Then frank, as often bush kids be,
Joanne, that little one, just three,
addressed the bloke, her comments free,
'You're all right, Mate,'she said.
'But I don't much like this runny stuff,
it's not as good and looks like fluff.
Excuse me please, I've had enough,
I'd rather mum's instead.'
All that happened long ago,
the child (my niece) of course, did grow.
Now when new folk are in the know,
Joanne turns bright, bright red.
...a true story.
Joanne is now a grandmother herself.
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