Fred Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

For fifteen years this sun-parched man,
a pensioner of eighty-one,
had celebrated passing weeks
in the old Pub, down by the park.

He'd ride his trusty horse, named Ale
on Sunday mornings, half past nine.
Ale waited in the shade with bucket
of water and a flake of hay.

The hay was first class quality,
the water cool in Queensland heat.
A pot of beer, one dollar special
until the clock struck noon at last.

One recent Sunday, when he left
he could not see his loyal horse.
Was it the sun or too much grog?
He hurried over to the tree,
found only bucket and some hay.
Hand on his chest he sank to ground
and called the name but all in vain.
So home he went, his friend was gone.

And late on Monday they arrived.
The boys in blue, gave him a notice:
'You must appear in Council Chambers
to prove your ownership of Ale,
and need to bring 800 bills
to pay for Council's Sunday troubles.'

Turned out they had untied the horse
from shady spot under the tree,
transported him to foster care
as he'd been unattended there.

'These things cost money', said the mayor,
'we did what needed to be done.'
When asked, he knew the horse's name
but had not learned the word called shame.

The owners of the land and tree,
when told about the old man's plight
wrote him a letter with an offer.
They'd put a sign and running water
at the old tree to make things legal.
And for a fee, a token really,
of twenty bucks times four, for Sundays
his world would be a happy place.

The man declined, as all the savings
for Sunday morning beer would be
erased by fancy fees again.
And since that time, old Fred is seen
under the tree with old mate Ale.
There's water, hay and ice-cold beer,
attended horses do not pay.

And now and then he spits tobacco
onto the sign the owners placed:
'No Unattended Horse, Signed - Council',
the owners of the Pub and land.