The Barn at Willoughby's Farm

I have this recurring nightmare where

I’m wandering round a farm,

It’s out in the middle of nowhere, just

A milking shed and a barn,

An ancient tractor sits by the house

But the blinds are pulled and drawn,

And it seems that the farmer left this place

Before Jacinth was born.

 

But ever I see her stand and wave

As she climbed aboard the bus,

Off for a life of adventure, not

Stuck here, like one of us,

She’d always wanted the country life

Away from the city’s swell,

The day that she waved goodbye to us

Was my first real glimpse of hell!

 

‘Once I’ve settled, I’ll write,’ she said,

‘Or else, there’s always the phone;

I’ll try to ring on a Friday night

When I’ll catch you all at home!’

But she didn’t ring, and she didn’t write

And a month went by so soon,

She’d left in the middle of March, at night,

And then it was almost June!

 

I called on out to the agency

The office was next to the zoo,

She said they’d found her a pretty farm

That wanted a Jillaroo,

She’d cook and clean for the family,

And then work out on the farm,

Herding the lowing milkers in

To the milking shed by the barn.

 

The woman flicked through the client file

In a search for Jacinth’s name,

She said, ‘That’s strange, I’ve re-arranged

This file, but just the same,

I have no recollection of this

Girl, whatever she’s called,

It could be another agency…’

But I thought the woman stalled!

 

I went to call at the depot where

The buses were parked at night,

I looked up the owner driver that

I’d seen when Jacinth took flight,

‘I don’t remember the girl,’ he said,

‘But March was a fair way back,

She probably went to Willoughby’s Farm

On the Strzelecki track.’

 

My heart sank into my boots at that,

I’d heard of that barren track,

There wasn’t a working farm out there

Just bush and the bleak outback,

I packed up the old Toyota Ute

With a jerry can or two,

And headed up to the Flinders

As I thought she’d want me to.

 

They hadn’t seen her in Lyndhurst,

What was left of the old ghost town,

I drove on up to Farina where

The buildings were falling down,

Then by the track on a tyre that sat

At the edge, on a pile of sand,

‘Five miles to Willoughby’s Farm’, the scrawl

Was writ in a shaky hand.

 

The farm was ruined and derelict,

The milking shed and the barn,

The tractor sat in a pile of rust

By the house of the ancient farm,

The roof had gone, had fallen in

But the barn was still intact,

And covered in dust by the old barn door

Was Jacinth’s haversack.

 

I pushed the door and it opened up

With a creak of ages past,

I thought of the sweat on the farmer’s brow

As he turned away, at last,

But there in the dry, brown dust of the floor

Was a slight but recent mound,

And a shovel leant by the cattle pen

As I fell on my knees, to the ground!

 

I have this recurring nightmare where

I’m wandering round a farm,

It’s out in the middle of nowhere, just

A milking shed and a barn,

And the tears stream in this dreadful dream

To remember the pain and hurt;

With one last look at the haversack,

The shovel bites into the dirt!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Enid Blake]

Ok, so I agree. You've told the tale adequately from the two opposing points of view. In conjunction with each other we have the whole sorry tale. I do like it, sad story or not! I love how your poems always gather momentum towards the finish, you draw us into a story beautifully and we as the reader are there - wanting more!

[Franklin McKinley]

I am a fan now, I like the style of suspense you write into your storytelling. The darkness you hang over every paragraph and the way your words rip through our vanes.

[Dean Kuch®]

No words I can relate to you in writing can convey the chills I got while I finished this! Simply amazing write, mesmerizing...

[Valentine]

Dang...you fooled me again..I thought he was going o find her and bring he back with him..I guess I am always looking for a romantic ewnding..Wonderful write..Love and God bless Lyn and YOu..Kathie

[MOON]

Poignant scary write like our worst nightmares confirmed.lyrical as usual quite a story.

[roarke]

the search that wrenches the guts. Dread, mounting anxiety at each turn... I felt my face wince up as the inevitable was slowly drawn in.
The sense of personality, intimacy, place, quest, that you bring to your writing is artistry, seemingly effortless in your hands, but artistry never the less. Bravo.