Picnic Races.(Poem)

 
PICNIC RACES 
Warren, NSW 
 
   In the small green paddock 
   of the members' enclosure, heads 
   accustomed to dusty plonked-on hats 
   carry the weight 
   of bows and bunches on kicked-up brims; 
   sinewy brown fingers strap 
   bubbly plastic cups 
   and stiff white programmes, 
   this finger, that wrist 
   with a discreet gleam-- 
   trophies of work-won success. 
   Natty-hatted men almost uniformly 
   in blue shirts and touch-of-red ties 
   --aged below thirty and they're off 
   with the coat and up with the sleeves-- 
   shake hands, leaning in and out 
   on firmly planted feet, 
   eyes occasionally assessing 
   the day's cloud form-- 
   fleeting wisps of white 
   tailing dusty grey hills. 
   The neck and neck 
   of male and female voices 
   circling each other 
   until generations of belonging 
   are won again. 
 
   A few steps inside 
   the gateless opening, 
   a three year old hobbled 
   in ankle-frilly dress 
   waits on the verge, 
   ...